


Supercross

by lazy_daze



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_daze/pseuds/lazy_daze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a world where competitive team stunt biking shows – explosive entertainment performances full of tricks, talent, fireworks and music – dominate the world of freestyle motocross biking, this story follows Sam and Dean Winchester as they deal with their lives, bikes, flips, tricks – and love.</p><p>Orphaned as kids when their father crash-lands a double backflip attempt, Sam and Dean grow up as part of his stunt team Winchester's Hunters; adopted by the group as family and rising to be the best two riders on the team, they grow up in this isolated world, where there is nothing more important in the boys' lives than biking and each other.</p><p>Two things loom on the horizon to threaten Dean's perfect little world: the new stunt team rising on the scene threatening his team's chances at the ultimate competition; and the strange new crippling tension between him and his brother that threatens to change – or even ruin – everything he holds dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 round of spn_j2_bigbang!
> 
> Title taken from the motocross competition event and the 2005 film Supercross (with Sophia Bush!), though this isn't a retelling of that film's plot (not enough incest for my tastes). I actually found this film after coming up with the initial idea and whilst researching, and felt it was serendipity. Supercross, brothers on bikes!
> 
> I started off taking a few artistic liberties with the existing world of stunt biking, or freestyle motocross (FMX), and ended up pretty much rewriting history and inventing a whole new sport and and mentally re-aligning all sorts of Winchester and FMX timelines to make them fit; AUs and artistic licence are great things! However I did try to keep it accurate and consistent within the world I created and any inaccuracies within that or re: bikes themselves are my own fault; constructive crit is welcome.
> 
> Big squishy thank you hugs to poor_choices for the fabulous beta job <3, to oxoniensis as always for support and nagging/encouragement to keep going, and to the unparalleled awesomeness of dauntdraws - not only is her art breathtaking, she was also a huge source of support and encouragement and even helped shape the story; her art brings a whole new dimension to the fic, her vision and talent is beyond amazing, and I couldn't have asked for a better collaborative experience. ♥!
> 
> Thanks to the tireless lovely mods of spn_j2_bigbang for running such a huge challenge so fantastically. ♥
> 
> Also, lastly, thanks to my mum - she isn't quite awesome enough to know this exists, but she is awesome enough to have been a part of a motorcycle stunt team as a youth, which was obviously the initial inspirational germ of this idea.
> 
> Amazing [art post](http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com/24634.html) by dauntdraws!

Prologue

It's like the world always stops for a moment, at the peak of a backflip; all there is is Dean, his body, and his bike. Time slows to a syrupy crawl, and he's caught suspended, upside down, the perfect synergy of his bike and body working to get him to this point. The slice of world he sees through his helmet in these moments is a snapshot of wonderful chaos – the lights and the vibrant colored stadium flipped above him and the blackness of the night sky below. He feels utterly weightless, the bike that normally anchors him as light as cardboard between his legs – gravity and speed and the G-force of the spin all cancel each other out for this perfect, single breathless moment.

Then the tug starts, the heavy drag of the world pulling him back down into its orbit, and he tightens his hands on the handlebars and tenses his thighs, uses his weight and momentum to make sure the bike completes the flip. The world rights itself in a swirling blur of lights and sound and Dean hits the dirt at the exact right angle; the wheels bounce and the jarring familiar thud runs through his whole body, and he absorbs it, lets it feed the adrenaline that's rushing hotly through him. It's his favorite place to be.

\--

 _Sometimes, maybe when they were traveling somewhere, they'd stop in a diner, a little truckstop nowhere off a nowhere highway. Maybe it would be the guy at the gas pumps, maybe it would be the bored waitress serving them pie – but sometimes, when it came up in conversation that the group of people who'd just walked in were bikers, someone's eyes would light up. Oh, they might say, I got a bike! Or maybe there's an uncle who used to put them on the back of his Triumph. Maybe someone has a standard roadbike they use to roar between their static little home and their static little job. I'm a biker, too! they might say. They'd think their biking had anything, anything in common with the team's, with sleek light stunt bikes that the team could twist in ways to make you lose your breath, with their life that revolved around it. I'm a biker, too!_

 _Dean would always catch Sam's eye, and Sam's mouth would quirk up at the corner because he'd know what Dean wanted to say to that. No, you're not. You think you know bikes, but you don't – not in the way we do. You didn't grow up around the growl of engines and the creak of leather, the smell of fuel and hot metal. You can't say you had your first kiss on a bike, your first fuck at a bike show; your first tantrum as a kid because your dad wouldn't let you sit on a bike on your own; your first scrape, your first bruise, your first broken bone, all from falling off bikes – you were born into them and you're almost certain you're going to die because of them, somehow, one day, and you won't have it any other way. It's not a job and it's not a hobby – it's a life. We're bikers._

 _He wouldn't say it, though. He'd grin and nod and accept the pie and flirt a little until they were gone, on the way to the next competition. It was enough seeing it reflected back in Sam's face; knowing that someone else knew._

\--

Supercross

He skidded the bike around in a wide circle as he powered down from the landing ramp, and saw Sam doing the same over the other side of the stadium, perfectly in time, and Corbett and Victor were coming up the middle – the four of them drew together and sped up with a low growl for the finish, heading for the high black ramp. He and Sam were a little ahead of the other two – they were meant to be all four in line, but he and Sam were on fire tonight, stars of the show, and no way they could help themselves pulling ahead a little, half-racing each other. They were flanking Corbett and Victor anyway so at least it was symmetrical, and Dean grinned viciously into the night as the pit below the ramp burst into flames, glittering blue and green with the show-night compounds sprinkled in the fire-trench. They all hit the ramp incline smoothly and flew easily off the top of the ramp and over the fire-pit and – yes, Ellen in the control booth hit the pyrotechnics right on time, explosions glittering around them as they hit the down-ramp. Bobby's signature rock soundtrack wailed to a crescendo right on cue, guitars screaming in a gorgeous mêlée for the show's climax.

The crowd was yelling and cheering, loud enough to be heard even over the roar of the flames and the crackle of the fireworks and the thudding of the music, all coalescing into the chaotic roar of sound that was the sound of a really fucking good show.

They all did a few twirls, in-time figure-eights on the flat area after the ramp, then Jo and Tamara came down the sides to join them, and the six of them roared out through the exit just as the horn blared, signaling time.

Dean floored it through the hard-packed dirt to get to their allocated prep area, where Bobby and Ellen and the rest of the assist team, techies and event-hired EMTs, were gathered under their logo'd banner.

He skidded to a stop by Travis, their head techie and Dean's preferred guy to take care of his bike, and tugged off his helmet, taking in a deep breath of the warm Las Vegas air and letting it out in a triumphant crow.

"Oh yeah," he yelled, and grinned as he swung a leg off his bike and let Travis take it back for the customary post-show cool-down and check-over. Much as everyone in the team loved their bikes and knew them inside out, the bikes were better off in the hands of the calm and sensible techies after a show, instead of the giddy adrenaline-fueled performers.

Dean dropped his helmet somewhere near the equipment pile and turned to greet Bobby who was raising a hand to him. Dean met his high five then pulled him into a hug and yelled into his ear, "Did you see that? Motherfucker, that was one hell of a show!"

Bobby pushed him away. "Be a wonder if I'll be able to hear any of the next one, you lout." But he was grinning. "Fucking great show. It'll be a disgrace if we don't win this with almost double the points of second place."

Sam growled into the area then, long and graceful in his performance leathers. He tugged his own helmet off and stepped off his bike more calmly than Dean, letting Pamela wheel it off, and slapped Bobby's palm, but his eyes were absolutely dancing, alight with the rush of a show that good. Dean loved to see that; it made his own enjoyment rocket up even higher seeing his brother's happiness, until he felt as though he could burst.

He launched himself over the small space between them and put his hands up. "Did we rock it or did we not, brother?"

Sam grinned, a wide excited thing with his tongue tucked behind his teeth, and smacked Dean's palms, used them to tug him in for a hug which Dean returned eagerly; he was buzzing all over with the post-show rush and having a warm person squashed affectionately against him felt awesome, even if it was his brother.

"I think we rocked it," said Sam, then pushed Dean away with a pat to his shoulder.

The others were coming in now, and their little section was crowded with performers and techies and bikes, the wonderful messy buzzing group of people – of their people, their family all doing what they did best.

Jo was shaking her hair out from her helmet, looking carefree and happy, until she spied Ellen running over from the control booth, and her expression became hunted.

"Sam," she moaned, and tried to duck behind him, and he spread his arms wide and looked menacing, but Ellen just shoved at him and he stumbled aside with a laugh.

"Joanna-Beth, do you even care what you're doing out there? Get your boots off and sit down and we need to ice that ankle immediately."

"Mom, it's _fine_ , I swear–"

"I _saw_ that landing, young lady–"

Dean had seen Jo land her third jump in the routine hard, jarring and twisting and slamming her foot down into the ground for a second before carrying on; she hadn't seemed to have any other problems with it, no weakness or favoring, but you did have to be careful.

"Humor your mom, Jo," said Dean loftily, "and at least ice it. Better be on the safe side."

Sam was already bringing over an ice pack from the first aid kit and being trailed by an EMT who'd have a proper look at it. Jo looked between Sam and Dean like they'd betrayed her, so Sam flashed a grin and made sure to dump the icepack on the back of Ellen's neck for a second to make her shriek before he handed it to her.

Their talk died away as a hush fell over the stadium, and Bobby as official team leader and Sam and Dean as primary riders looked at each other solemnly, tensely, yet excitedly. They made their way to the media bays, because it was time: the judges had finished collating their scores and the announcement was on its way.

Dean knew, he _knew_ they'd done enough, more than enough, but you'd have to have sold your soul to the devil to not be nervous during results announcements. Bobby was gnawing on his thumbnail to his right and Sam was a giant expanse of tense muscle as he sat squashed up next to Dean on his left, as they waited for the scores to flash up on the screen–

"Holy shit," Dean said, but it was lost in the crowd cheering and the way Sam had chucked his arms right around Dean and was squeezing the life out of him at the same time as trying to stand up with him. Three-point-five points off their _personal best_ score and it was only the quarterfinals! The win itself wasn't surprising but that was one hell of a good score, and it was always, always the best feeling in the world to see _Winchester's Hunters_ emblazoned bright green across the top of the leaderboard.

The night blurred away into a riot of camera flashes and giddy media interviews and hauling back to their camp, ignoring their hotel rooms and sitting around the trailers drinking Natty Light and the bottles of champagne they'd got as winners, because that was how they rolled. They splashed toast after toast to the team, to their history and roots and and those they'd lost, to John and Mary; to Sam and Dean and all the performers that night, to the techies and the admins and the whole crew, to the competition, and to the next step towards Apocalypse.

\--

 _Teamwork had been a word Dean had understood since he was young, in a way that so many other people never had to understand, because in his life, it wasn't just a skill, it was a way of life. Winchester's Hunters were a team, but more than that, they were a family._

 _Tamara was the only current member who'd been actively recruited, needed to pad out the team when Rufus had retired, and the only reason she'd stayed is because over the course of the three-day trial she and Jo had practically fallen in platonic love. Tamara was still pretty young herself, but a tough and independent girl with a rough but flashy and enthralling riding style; Jo was an impressionable fifteen year-old who'd thought Tamara was the coolest thing she'd ever seen. Bobby had watched Tamara's tricks and flips critically, but his closest watch had been as she'd laughed and joked around with Jo, forging a tentative bond of trust, loyalty and affection that even just in the three days brought Jo out of the sullen teenage shell she'd been threatening to live in. Before, she'd been bitching that none of her other friends at school had a mom who spent all her free time running around the country with a dirty smelly bike team. After Tamara appeared, Jo picked up her helmet for the first time in weeks and demanded Tamara show her how to do the basic FMX tricks._

 _Dean hadn't been senior enough on the team by far at that point to help make the decisions, but he'd sat with Bobby as he'd thrown out the paperwork on the other applicants. "She's going to be one of us. Not just a rider on our team, but part of us. You can feel it," Bobby had said. He'd raised an eyebrow. "And I'm not just saying that because Jo would have my hide if I picked anyone else." He winked, and Dean always remembered that. Older, more experienced, better bikers drifted to the floor in Bobby's grimy office because Tamara fit, and not a one of them regretted her joining._

 _Tamara slotted in easily; she had a place not only in the structure of the team but an emotional place in the family, and it was because of her that Jo paid attention to her biking lessons and joined the team as a proper, full-fledged rider two years later, never riding better than when she was out with Tamara._

 _That was teamwork. Not those who rode best, but those who worked best together. That was how their team was built and how it thrived._

\--

The world of competitive group freestyle motocross, or GFMX, had sprung up fast in the world of stunt biking. The biking world's interest – not to mention the sports media in general – were already taking note of solo FMX, when a group of talented FMX bikers started putting on shows across the country, combining their skills into breathtaking performances that captured people's interest more than individuals doing trick after trick in single jumps. What started off as performance and entertainment – actually more lucrative for the bikers due to ticket sales than trying to make a living in the competitive solo FMX world – soon became competition in itself. Groups across the nation started putting together shows, vying for the attention, money and critical acclaim of FMX fans, and it quickly became a phenomenon as big as solo FMX – and with organized competition, sponsorship and prizes to go with it.

John had liked to tell Dean about it, educate him on it all on a Sunday afternoon while he crouched in front of his bike tinkering with it.

"And me and your mommy and Uncle Bobby started off nobodies – into local FMX events, on the scene, but it wasn't til we got together that the magic started, so we thought we'd make a team. Got some recruits, put on some local shows, got some recognition – and it kinda snowballed from there, 'til now, being – what are we, Dean?"

"The best GFMX team in the Midwest!" Dean had parroted back, smiling.

"Exactly. So that's how it came about – and how we got into it. Some people still prefer solo FMX – they say GFMX is too flashy, or that you don't get enough individual recognition – but that's their opinion. For a lot of people it's not about individual acclaim. It's about working with others, about being a team, about making each other stronger, Dean. Working together and looking out for each other and being – a part of something bigger."

Dean had been about six, staring up at his daddy in awe as he sat on the grimy floor of the garage. He didn't know what _acclaim_ meant but he understood one thing. "Like how – me and Sammy look out for each other."

Dad had grinned so wide at that, Dean always remembered. "Exactly. Exactly like that. You wouldn't want to be on your own, would you? Without Sammy?"

"No!"

"Even if people paid more attention to you? If you could do what you wanted all the time?"

"No. Never."

Dad had nodded. "Then you know what I mean." He tightened the wrench one more time, wiped his hands on his jeans and then swiped one, still a little smeared with grease, through Dean's hair. The smell of engine grease would still always remind Dean just a bit of his dad, no matter how pervasive and common the smell was in his life. There were some links that couldn't be undone.

\--

"We're gonna take Apocalypse this year. No doubt," said Dean, for what was probably the fifteenth – or fiftieth – time that night, and everyone bobbed their heads in serious agreement like they did every time, though the group had dissipated enough that they didn't launch off into another detailed rehashed tipsy conversation about the competition and the structure and how they thought they'd do and other groups would do, all that stuff. This was the first year _Apocalypse_ as a competition was in place, finally cleaning up and replacing a lot of the scattered vying Grand Prix events that had grown along with the sport. It was scarier and yet more exciting, having one main competition acting as the _Championship_ above all else – one top arena to shine or fail in. There were still other more minor Grand Prix and regional events, but this was the first centralized national competition to crown the best team in the nation instead of the messy regional results being added together and an anticlimactic best team picked. This was a more exciting way to do it and the whole GFMX world was abuzz with it.

Conversation was definitely slowing, though, as the adrenaline and excitement faded and alcohol kicked in; it was Dean's favorite part of the night after a good show. This quiet, content time, when some people had hooked up and some had drifted off elsewhere and there were only a handful of people left sitting around, mellow and tired and happy.

They were based this time in a lot off a freeway not far from the stadium, but beyond the dull view of the six lanes of rumbling traffic, the flat Nevada desert yawned all the way out to meet the pink creeping dawn. The air was crisp and warm but lacked the searing heat of the day, and Dean closed his eyes and tipped his head back into the tiny soft breeze that flickered along his face.

Sam jostled him clumsily, leaning his weight over from where he was sitting next to Dean, long legs flopped out in front of him, leather traded in for soft worn jeans and battered sneakers. "Falling asleep already?" said Sam, voice softly slurred from a night of low-key but steady drinking, and rasping slightly from the hours of talking and laughing.

Dean opened his eyes and grinned, squinting over at his brother. "Nah, just appreciating the moment. You look like you're the one who's about to keel over. Lightweight."

Sam shook his head lazily, soft strands of hair falling over his eyes, which Dean absently reached out to tuck back behind his ears. Sam opened his mouth as if to say something, but just looked at Dean for a long moment instead, more focused and intent than he'd seemed a moment ago.

"Yeah?" prompted Dean, settling his hand back in his lap.

Sam blinked, then shook his head again. "Nuh-uh. You know as well as I do that I've been able to hold more liquor than you since I turned nineteen."

"Aw, a whole year," said Dean, but it was sadly true – since Sam had finally added a bit of muscle to balance his growth spurt and his lanky six foot five frame, he'd just beaten Dean in that department, tested rigorously with quantifiable results.

Dean shrugged as though it didn't sting the tiniest bit, putting all the big-brother nonchalance he could into it. "I ain't the one falling asleep where I sit, pal," he drawled, and Sam grinned sleepily at him and laid back flat on the ground like Dean had given him permission; and sure enough, his breathing evened out and quickly turned into snores.

Dean watched him for a moment, because he was a little drunk and a lot tired and he could. There was something immensely satisfying in just watching Sam in moments like this, seeing him all grown and alive and healthy and content, so many miles from the skinny scared little boy he'd been once.

He looked up to see Bobby watching him. "What?" he said, probably coming across more defensive than he meant to – but he was a little drunk and a lot tired.

Bobby just took a long pull at his beer and shrugged. "Better get that boy to bed sooner rather than later, or he's gonna wake up with one hell of a crick in his neck and bitch to all hell about it."

Dean looked back at Sam and his mouth tugged up at the corners. "Yeah, I better, I guess. Probably head off to sleep at some point soon myself. It's getting light." He gestured to the pinks and blues rapidly spreading up from the east across the huge dark desert sky, and Bobby turned his head to look for a moment before fixing his gaze back on Dean.

"You can't hang on to him forever, you know," said Bobby, and took another pull of his beer but kept his gaze towards Dean.

Dean frowned at him, irritated. "What do you mean?"

"I know you boys are close and I've always encouraged it because it was what you needed. _You_ needed someone to care for because it distracted you from the fact there was no-one to care for you, and he needed to cling to someone when he had no mommy and daddy to cling to – and I know you boys love each other, and it's good for the team."

Dean frowned further and crossed his arms, sensing a _but_. He glanced back at Sam without being able to stop himself. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you both, Dean, and he ain't a kid anymore."

"I know that! I don't treat him like a kid. I treat him like what he is, my grown brother."

Bobby didn't say anything, just looked out across the camp. Ellen was dozing in a chair next to him, Sam was asleep next to Dean, and there was a small group joking around across the other side of the camp by the covered temp garage, but everywhere else was quiet.

Bobby sighed. "I mean – you gotta think about him having his own life one day. You boys grew up into this and there are other choices, but he ain't ever going to even think about them while his eyes are set on you and you're clinging right back. You might have to let him go."

Dean scuffed at the dirt awkwardly; he knew he and Sam were close, of _course_ they were, how they'd grown up, but it still made him feel all squirmy and uncomfortable with Bobby shining a light on his emotions like that. It wasn't fair, anyway. "You don't know what it was like. When it was just us. You guys looked after us and you know we love you for it, but we didn't have you, not really, we only had each other. And we are happy and we are _good_ , so don't tell me I'm doing him any disservice when I pretty much raised him."

"I'm only–"

"Drop it, Bobby." Ellen had raised from her slump in the chair, looking sleepily but reprimanding at Bobby. She dropped her head towards Dean, and Bobby sighed and started collecting the empties. "You did good by that boy, Dean," said Ellen, "ignore Bobby. He's just letting his long overdue paternal instincts get in the way, 'cause Sam's smart; visions of fancy colleges dancin' in his head just 'cause he barely got his G.E.D."

Dean frowned and picked at a rip in his jeans. "Sam's too old for college by now anyway." They'd had a patchy education, half in school, half tutors, but Sam had always managed to be a complete nerd anyway and get pretty impressive results – but none of them had ever talked about college once they'd officially graduated from their patchy, messy high school education.

Ellen shrugged. "Well, no-one's ever really too old for college – but forget about it. Sam's not some delicate flower; if he wants something, he'll say it."

That was much was true, Dean was pretty sure. Sam was stubborn and bullheaded and didn't do anything anyone else wanted him to do, only what he wanted to do, which Dean was more proud of than anything – Winchesters didn't take any crap from anybody. But Sam _was_ different with Dean. Maybe he just didn't want to say anything to him. Maybe–

He shook his head; he was still a little drunk and a lot tired and Bobby didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. He leaned back on his elbows and tipped his head back, watching Sam out of the corner of his eyes, checking he was still fast asleep.

He shot a little smirk over in Bobby's direction. "Huh. Paternal. More like _grand_ -paternal – ow!" he said, as Bobby walked by and _accidentally_ clipped him in the head with the trash bag of empties.

\--

Dean was only five but he knew enough to not ask about his mommy. John's moods were changeable like lightning, and Dean couldn't remember a time when they weren't but he knew it had been better before his mom had died. Even though he'd been very small then, and Sammy had only been a baby. He had learned not to ask about it though, because it made Dad go from smiling and loving in a flash to silent and dark, and everyone else got sad, and Dad wouldn't even look at Sam when Sam started crying, on those days – and Dean didn't mind cuddling Sam to stop him crying but he didn't know how to give him food or anything. He had to go get Ellen and she always looked so sad when he did. So he didn't ask about Mommy even though he didn't really understand and he missed her so much; all he knew was that it had something to do with the bikes and the shows that Mommy and Daddy were always talking about so excitedly.

It wasn't until he was six and a half that he learned enough to know his mom had died during a stunt; she was doing a jump from a bike in mid air over a pile of flaming hay bales and was meant to land safely on a tarp the other side. He knew all this when he was six because he heard Ellen shouting at his dad in the garage, one hot day when they were traveling through Missouri for a 'Gran Pee' or something.

Dean had been hiding at the back of the dark and relatively cool garage, poking through Travis's toolbox and pretending to be a real techie fixing a bike. He clenched his hands on the pressure gauge he was holding and he ducked down from view as John came storming in, Ellen hot on his heels. They shouted for a long time, until John said "Stop it, please, just – stop it, _don't_ ," when Ellen wouldn't stop talking about how Mary – Mom – had died.

There was a long silence then, and Dean breathed as carefully and silently as he could, crouched down on the concrete floor.

"I know you hate hearing it," Ellen said, more quietly. "But you have to think about them, now. You need to take on the responsibility that you and Mary didn't take seriously enough when you had kids. You need to stop biking, you need to officially take yourself off the team, though god knows Bobby's not designing any more roles for you in the shows; and you need to let go of that godforsaken idea I know you've had at the back of your head almost since she died and forget about having that one last shot as a wildcard entry in the solo FMX championships – yes, I know you've been thinking about it, I've seen your application. I don't even understand why that's stuck in your head, John, you've always been a team biker."

"Don't – don't fucking lecture me, Ellen! You're not–"

"Your _mom_? You seem to forget sometimes I am someone's mom, that I've got a kid too, and I've not put a leg over a bike since she was born, because I'm doing a damn sight better job of taking care of my child than you are – than you both did."

John sucked in a hurt breath, and Ellen sighed. "Sorry, John. That was harsh, I know it. But you've been screwing the team around – those _kids_ around, for the past two years, and I gotta make you take a good look at yourself. Your life. Your _boys_."

John rubbed a hand over the scruff on his face and turned slightly. Dean hunched down further, though it seemed as though his dad could be looking right at him and not notice; he wasn't seeing what was in front of his eyes right now.

"I know you don't get it. But – it's the only thing I got left, from what I used to have. My life was two things – it was loving Mary and it was biking. I love my boys, I do, I love 'em so much, and I am gonna be a good dad to them, you can't think I don't care about that – but my girl, and my bike. They were the only things I was ever any good at."

"How about being a good dad, huh? You can be, I know you can–"

"You don't know shit, Ellen! You're not in my head, you don't know how it feels. I lost Mary, and I don't even – I'm not even any good at leading a team anymore, my head's not there for the team without her, but I can still do my tricks. I still got my bike and my talent and I need to know that I _can_ do that. That I'm worth something. Let me – Ellen, I swear, let me have this one shot, let me show them I can do it – I can win, I know I can, not one of those FMX guys who call themselves bikers have landed a double backflip in competition, I _can_. Let me have this, and I swear, I'll stop. I'll prove that I can do this, for – for Mary, for myself, and then I'll stop and I'll give everything I have to my boys, to her memory. Just let me have this chance."

Ellen turned away, hand caught up in a tangle of frustration in the hair that usually fell in a soft wave over her forehead. "It ain't my place to give you permission, John. I said my piece and you know how I feel."

"Ellen–"

"Don't."

John left then, and he left the whole camp that afternoon in a pick-up truck, helmet in the passenger seat and his bike trussed up carefully in the bed of the truck, gleaming in the early summer sun. He ruffled a hand through Dean's hair and held Sam close for a long, careful minute, promised them he'd be back soon and things would be better, and swung himself into the truck and rumbled off. It was the last time Dean ever saw his dad.

\--

Bobby always dedicated the shows to Mary and John, saying _for their memory_ just before everyone went out to the starting area and strapped on their helmets, and Dean appreciated the gesture, and he also wasn't selfish enough to believe it was just for Sam and him, because Bobby had been his parents' closest friend – but he still didn't like it too much. He'd never say they shouldn't have carried on riding once they had kids, because he knew how the growl of the engine and the shudder of the wheels over earth got under your skin and ran through your blood; no one could make him give it up, now. It wasn't that. It was only – his Dad hadn't just carried on riding. He'd disregarded everything that had held the team together, he'd gone to compete solo. He'd left Sam and Dean orphans because he risked a double backflip and fucked it up, crushed his spinal cord, in a goddamn _FMX_ championship heat, and it fucked with everything his Dad had told him and everything Dean's world was built around. On his team – his family. It was a plainly selfish act, and it had left Dean to raise his two year old brother – and sure, the team had helped, Bobby had become their official guardian and Ellen had educated them on the road and done all she could to help, but it was Dean in all the ways that mattered, learning younger than anyone should how to care for a kid.

He didn't begrudge it, because it was his job and his life and it was _Sammy_ and nothing could make him regret that, but it didn't mean he had to stand around and laud his Dad as some wonderful martyr figure. He could see Ellen's face crease with tension, too, when Bobby said it, but then she'd always look at Sam and Dean and her face would soften with that awful pity and Dean knew he wouldn't be able to get anything out of her if he tried to talk about it with her. As if he was so damn fragile.

Or maybe he just needed to get out of his goddamn head and do some biking, because he always got stupidly maudlin around the anniversary of his mom and dad's deaths. Only days and two years apart.

The truck rumbled and bumped over the dirt road that led up to Bobby's house, and Dean shifted irritably, wanting to get out.

Sam was lounging in the seat next to him, and there was always something about being in the backseats while Bobby drove that made Dean feel like a kid again.

"Hey," said Sam, kicking a foot out. "Gonna race me in the dirt track this afternoon?"

Sam didn't remember enough about his dad, or life before he died, to sit and stew in the way Dean did, but he knew enough to know when he needed to pull Dean out of his own head. Dean nodded. "Kick your ass."

"Yeah, dream the fuck on."

Much as it felt like it sometimes, Winchester's Hunters didn't spend their whole lives out on the road, the performers, techies and admins in their close little family traveling up and down from show to show, living in trailers or hotels depending on whether the venue and competition body put them up. Most people had their own house, even if mostly for tax reasons, and somewhere to crash in the four or five months after competition season ended in the fall and before the performance tours started just before spring. Ellen and Jo lived in Nebraska somewhere and Bobby had his sprawling decked house in South Dakota, with the garage and acres attached – converted, of course, into a dirt trail and small performance area with ramps and equipment that Bobby used to start sketching out the design for next season's show. Everyone else flittered off somewhere, the younger ones back to their families and the rest to god knows where – home, odd jobs, travel; though most of them dropped by Bobby's for a party or two. Sam and Dean had lived with Bobby since John died, so it was the next best thing to home after being astride a bike.

Even in the midst of the competition season, though, as they were now, just over two weeks away from the Apocalypse semifinals, there were some times when you needed a break, and Bobby always made sure they got one this time of year. Dean resented feeling coddled but truth was half the team was a bit off balance, from Bobby and Ellen and Victor and Travis – the ones who'd really known John and Mary – and the newer members who always felt a bit wary of the looming specters of these people they'd never known spreading tension throughout the team. So it was really for the best they take a couple days.

Plus he could always use a chance to hone his speed skills.

Bobby's dirt track wound through copses of trees, up and down sandy rises and had a series of low ramps culminating in a jump ramp that flew over a little pond. Dean loved the shows, the stunts and tricks, he did, but sometimes there was nothing more exhilarating than speed-biking around a dirt track like those motocross monkeys. He whooped into the wind and skidded around a sharp bend into the straight row of little bumps, bouncing the bike over them before shooting up the final big ramp and flying over the pond, suspended in the air and looking down to see his reflection in the smooth water, before crashing back down to earth. He gunned the accelerator and the wind whipped past him as he sped through the rustling trees and leaned around the bend, dust billowing up behind him and hopefully making it more difficult for Sam who kept trying to squeeze past him on every turn.

He whooped again in triumph as he approached the finish – a stack of rusted old paint cans either side of the track – and lifted his front wheel up off the ground to speed through triumphantly, finishing off on an elegant twirl sending up more clouds of dust for Sam to speed through as he finished. He skidded to a stop next to Dean and turned off the engine, waved his hands at the dust, taking off his helmet and coughing. "It's so unfair how good you are at that," he said, punching Dean in the arm, "seeing as you're the one who's all, _oh, motocross is just dull, rough speed biking, no artistry and skill, anyone can go fast_!"

Dean grinned wide at him. "Doesn't mean it's not awesome to whup your ass at it."

Sam was wiping his eyes and already jamming his helmet back on. "Again," he said, then stamped on the kickstart pedal with a cackle and sped off before Dean could even get his feet off the floor.

Sam _just_ won the second race – with way less of a margin than he should have considering the headstart he'd stolen, Dean consoled himself. They secured the bikes they'd borrowed back in Bobby's impressive hoard – stunt bikes, racing bikes, proper road motorcycles, some Harley Davidsons covered in a tarp, something that looked like little granny-scooters lurking at the back – almost all well-kept and shining, except for a pile of too-old and too-fucked-up bikes, piles of junk Bobby cannibalized for parts and such. Dean had no idea how Bobby afforded to buy and keep up his collection, but so much about Bobby was an enigma.

He bickered about random shit with Sam all the way into the house, then they fought each other up the stairs with elbows and feet to get first shower, which Dean managed to get after pulling on Sam's hair – low tactic, but hey, Bobby's hot water was not the most reliable.

Sam shouldered in past him with a scowl when Dean left the bathroom, and came out shivering ten minutes later with an even darker scowl, hair in cold wet rat-tails in his face.

Dean grinned and held out a steaming mug of cocoa, which Sam eyed disbelievingly for a moment, before he slanted a look at Dean and took it with a grin.

"Have I gone back in time?" said Sam, but his eyes closed in bliss and he slumped down in one of the overstuffed armchairs as he slurped the cocoa.

Dean shrugged. The whole afternoon, from the racing to the bickering, being in the house, had made him feel like he was twelve and Sam was eight again, screeching around on trainer bikes and wrestling in the dirt and being kids; Bobby would always make them big mugs of cocoa when they'd exhausted themselves, curled up together in that same armchair. He just felt like reliving it, a little, because it calmed him.

Well, he'd probably have to give up trying to curl up with Sam in an armchair nowadays. Fucker could barely fit in it on his own, and Dean snorted to himself imagining Sam sprawled in his lap, limbs akimbo.

"What," said Sam slitting his eyes open.

"Nothing," said Dean, still smiling a bit, and Sam grunted and went back to communing with his cocoa.

Dean wandered over to where Bobby was scribbling away at his big desk in the corner.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked, plopping down in a chair and propping his chin on his hands, grinning obnoxiously.

Bobby eyed him warily. "Fine tuning the show," he said, and Dean looked down with interest at the papers spread out on the desk.

Bobby was officially chairman, head coach and show designer for Winchester's Hunters, which meant he pretty much took care of everything practical to do with biking for the team, even though he didn't ride out anymore. Ellen and her admin team took care of all the important and technical stuff Bobby was too crotchety and old fashioned to deal with, from entering the competitions to booking the performance tours, to venues and event timetables, to the financial side, media, marketing and sponsorships.

Bobby just made sure everyone rode the best they possibly could every second they were on the bikes, his experienced and careful eye overseeing what equipment everyone used from bikes to protective gear, to coaching everyone almost daily, to designing every second of the huge shows they put on.

A show wasn't just the guys and girls on bikes doing tricks one after another. They were complex, intertwined _productions_ , with music, costume leathers and careful choreography. They had to mix artistry and entertainment with skill, talent and risk, pushing but keeping to the boundaries of safety – and taste.

Bobby was tapping a pencil over a complex diagram that Dean had no idea what it was meant to represent.

"Jo and Tamara's tandem seat-grab handstands," said Bobby, and oh, Dean knew that part of the show, of course. They had pretty much a set show through the season, though they tweaked it for improvements as they went. The off season was the time for the full new design.

"What is it?" said Dean, reaching a hand towards the papers, which Bobby slapped away.

"They're a bit off, I noticed it in the last show."

Dean nodded – he'd noticed it too. It was one of the most tricky mid-air maneuvers – coming totally off your bike and doing a handstand off the seat, then swinging yourself back into the seat before you hit the ground. The girls were agile and quick and perfectly skilled, but they weren't exactly in tune with each other – a half-second or so adrift in their movements, which was noticeable.

"Maybe have them do it in canon, after each other, rather than tandem?" called Sam, from where he was curled up in the armchair, somehow managing to make himself look like he actually fit there. His wet hair was drying hilariously rumpled.

Bobby pulled a face.

"Distract the judges with a sparks flare?" suggested Dean.

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Replace Tamara with Corbett?"

Bobby made a dismissive noise. "Corbett's fucking fantastic on the handstands, he could probably do a somersault and still be back in the seat with two whole seconds to go, but trying to ask him to handstand in _tandem_ with anyone is like asking a dog to meow."

Dean snorted. "Nicely put."

Bobby made a few random pencil marks on his papers. "It's just after Jo's second backflip, so maybe her arms are a bit tired at that point. I'll delay their trick with another wheelie figure-eight around the stadium, give her a few seconds."

Dean harrumphed. "Why do we bother with our suggestions."

Bobby narrowed his eyes at him. "Did I ask for it?"

"Nope!" said Sam cheerfully, "but you love it anyway."

"Winchesters always sticking their noses in my goddamn designs," said Bobby, but his irritation was about as convincing as – as, well, Corbett trying to do a handstand trick in tandem with someone else. "Get me a fucking cocoa and shut your faces."

\--

 _Corbett hadn't planned on this life, not really – he'd had a keen interest in biking, after catching a few GFMX shows in L.A with his college friends, and did some casual motocross riding and some tricks of his own on the side. He'd realized he had a love for the engineering aspect of it all, tinkering around with the bikes, not to mention uncovering a talented, smart understanding of engines. He was a fan and buddy of the Hunters after following their shows, riding casually with them for fun when they were in or near L.A., chatting with Sam about school, learning new tricks, honing his seat-grab with Dean, having fun._

 _He'd been doing pre-law at the time in a prestigious school, stifling in it the more he realized it wasn't what he wanted to do with his life. He went to his parents with a well-thought out plan to drop out of the pre-law trajectory, start on a course in a different college in motorcycle engineering and maintenance with a promised place on the Hunters' tech team if he wanted it once he was qualified; he came away from them disgraced and disowned for daring to give up his dad's career in law for the dirty, unreliable world of biking._

 _He'd been cut off from his allowance, without a home or enough money to start his training, and the Hunters took him in that same night without him having to ask. Ellen had always had a fondness for him when he'd come around, and as soon as word of mouth had filtered in from his friends in the local scene she'd cleared out one of their trailers and got the paper trail started already before she even called him to come join._

 _He trained under Travis, started an apprenticeship, but within three weeks his talent at riding when it wasn't just for occasional fun shone through and his path changed from working underneath the bikes to on top of them, though he kept up his training on a reduced workload. Everyone on the team liked him already – he was friendly in a young, optimistic and genuine way, intelligent enough to not be naïve with it, and his understanding of the bikes and the way they worked with him and with others meant he gelled with the team instantly, a seamless transition from new techie to new rider. He never looked back._

\--

Dean got up leisurely the next day, when the sunlight moved across his bed in the twin attic room he'd always shared with Sam. Sam's bed was empty, so Dean wandered downstairs, grabbed an apple from the kitchen and found Sam in the garage, down at the heap-of-junk end, tinkering with a beat-up of piece of shit that had been a decent Kawasaki Z200 back in the eighties.

He stood and watched for a moment, before Sam stopped whatever he was doing with the wrench and looked up at Dean irritably. "Quit watching me."

Dean grinned and said, just to be annoying, "You'll never get that running."

Sam shrugged and dropped the wrench back into the toolbox with a clatter, wiping grease on his already unsalvageably smeared wifebeater, and rolled his shoulders. "I know. I'm just fiddling with it."

"Scoot over," said Dean, kicking at Sam's thigh where he was perched on a toolbox.

"Your fat ass won't fit on here, you're not ten any more," said Sam, and kicked one of his long legs out to hook a foot around the corner of a plastic crate nearby and dragged that over.

"Oh great," said Dean, "because crosshatching imprints on my ass is exactly what I wanted today," but he tugged the crate closer next to Sam and sat down anyway. He peered at the bike where Sam had it tipped back on its kickstand. "So, what we doing with this?"

"You're the one who said this couldn't be gotten running," said Sam, but he picked up the wrench again and poked around, showing Dean what he'd been doing, and Dean picked up some tools and they sat together fiddling with the guts of the bike. They probably wouldn't get it running, but there was absolutely nothing more satisfying than digging around in an old fucked-up bike and seeing if you could figure out what was wrong in the depths of its grimy old engine and if there was any way to fix it.

"So what do you think of the show?" said Sam as they tightened and greased and cleaned the engine.

Dean bit his lip; Bobby had made a few changes to it last night, talking Sam and Dean through it. It was nice to be trusted with that, because Bobby didn't let just anyone that close to that side of things.

"Good. Really good."

Sam nodded, grunted as he tightened a tough brake valve. "Yeah, me too. I like the whole–" he waved a hand in the air. "Opposite flips we do, through the thingy, near the end?"

"You only say that 'cause that's you and me."

Sam grinned. "Well, duh. It's the most fun. Also, we're totally awesome."

Dean dropped his wrench and put his hands in the air either side of Sam's head, making a concerned face as though he was worried Sam's head was going to blow up. Sam rolled his eyes and hit Dean's hands away, but he was grinning. "Shut up, like you don't say that every day. Seriously, though. Think the whole show is good enough to win this?"

"I reckon. I reckon there shouldn't be anything stopping us, you know? We've got so much talent in everyone in the team, we've got the best and most daring routines–"

"We still haven't seen what Azazel's Demons can do, not their whole show."

Dean shuddered and crossed himself with the dirty grease rag he'd picked up. "Don't even."

Sam shrugged. "Just saying. They've got some of the best talent out there, and god knows how much serious financial backing, they're a serious threat."

"I know, you don't gotta tell me that," said Dean, twisting the rag morosely around a finger. Along with the re-jigging of the competition circuit had come the formation of a new corporate body – _Azazel_ , with GFMX team attached, the Demons. They were the antithesis of how GFMX had grown – they weren't a group of riders that had gravitated together or grown as a unit, a family like so many teams felt, they were simply hand-picked riders by suits, lured in by the salaries and shiny corporate front Azazel presented. Most teams were self-sufficient, but Azazel got all sorts of tax breaks and could pull some smart accountancy moves because it was incorporated and backed by the people with money in the industry, so riders got a huge percentages of the prize money, not to mention proceeds from ticket sales and the huge sponsorship dividends Azazel had garnered. All teams had a certain amount of industry sponsorship to support them – Winchester's Hunters had a bikes-and-clothing deal with Kawasaki, for example; but Azazel had secured an exclusive deal with Honda which was emblazoned over every aspect of the team. Exclusive such that Honda had withdrawn support from any other teams they'd had deals with, leaving them floundering financially and damaging morale.

Sam shrugged, turning his attention back to the bike. "Doesn't mean we can't beat them, though, right?"

"Damn straight we're going to beat them. Bobby would have our hide if we didn't – fucking soulless bastards, every one of those riders who's gotten sucked into that corporate hell."

Sam's face spread into a grin, supreme confidence in his older brother, and Dean felt thrown back to his youth when Sam would literally follow him around, believing that Dean could do no wrong, was everything Sam wanted to be and was _going_ to be. Sam had thrown a tantrum the day Dean had been deemed old enough to be allowed to ride a bike solo instead of on the back of Bobby's, because of course Sam wasn't allowed to do the same yet; he pitched a screaming fit so violent the owners of the lot they were renting out for their practice camp called the cops.

Not that Sam didn't still look up to his brother a little, even if he tried to hide it, but he'd come into a wicked independent streak in his teens and much as Dean was proud of his strong-minded brother, it wasn't quite as fun when Sam spent a fair few teenage years doing everything as absolutely different as possible to Dean. They'd settled now, in tune and knowing each other better than anyone, but sometimes a little bit of Dean's ego missed that wide-eyed kid who thought he'd leaped off the back of a bike mid-jump to place the sun.

It had been like this for the past day or so, though, here at Bobby's, feeling like a slide back to their childhood, those golden days that hadn't actually been all that perfect, orphaned and clinging together, but coated with the rose-colored screen of nostalgia seemed as if they were the best days of his life.

He'd been content and happy through this little break, and Sam had done everything right to help keep Dean out of his own head, but thinking about Azazel's Demons was a stark reminder that things had changed, they were living in the present now, and they weren't kids. They were adults, they were grown and changed from who they'd used to be; and Sam hadn't said anything that suggested he wasn't perfectly happy in his life as it was, but Bobby's comments would not quit niggling at the back of Dean's head. He knew Sam was independent. He knew Sam was smart; he knew Sam could do pretty much anything he put his mind to.

Not that Dean couldn't; biking was all he knew but he could probably do something else if wanted, he just _didn't_. He loved biking, he loved this life, in a fierce and satisfying way, but what if Sam wanted more? What if Sam didn't even know he wanted more but would one day just fly? What if Dean was holding him back, somehow?

It was dumb to worry about, but knowing that didn't mean he could stop. The memory of his Dad never coming back was vivid and sore enough and probably always would be that Dean was pretty well aware of his own issues: that niggling fear that one day everyone was going to leave, that he wouldn't be important enough to keep them, like he wasn't for his Dad.

Sam hadn't shown any signs of leaving; but there was an emotional tug that Dean couldn't ignore, and fear and rationality were not friendly bedfellows.

"Two years since you graduated school," he said, and Sam looked at him strangely. It was rather out of nowhere, especially as Sam had no idea Dean was fretting about anything apart from this bike they were wrist-deep in.

Dean shrugged awkwardly. "Just saying. You always liked that shit, god knows why. Wondered if you missed it, or whatever, now you're just a bike grunt."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Just? Anyway, I dunno. It was cool, but I can – there's books and the internet and stuff if I wanna learn things. I was thinking of doing an engineering-type course one day, get qualified to maybe be a techie when we can't ride anymore."

Dean bit his lip. "Like, at college?"

Sam shrugged, rooting around in the toolbox. "Maybe, I dunno, or a distance learning thing, or whatever. We're going to be riding for a few years yet, right? Or this this a lead-up to a hey-I'm-gonna-retire speech?"

"Jesus, no, they're going to have to pry my old and busted-up body off a bike."

"Yeah, thought so, but you're scaring me, man. What's with the grilling about the future?"

Dean shrugged irritably, no more worried but not really relieved. "I dunno. Just making conversation." He tugged too hard with the wrench and it slipped off, and he bruised his knuckles with a clang against the fuel pipe. "Shit. This isn't gonna run."

They both looked over the yard at the slam of Bobby's truck door, watched him start to load stuff up – they were heading back soon, then. They were going out to one of their static training locations, a camp set up in a lot in South Carolina for a couple of weeks' practice until the Apocalypse semifinals.

Dean chucked the tools too-hard back into the box, wincing at the metallic crash, and stood up, stretching out his back until it popped. He ignored Sam's concerned look, and sighed, because maybe he'd spent a few days relaxed and not brooding about his fucked up family past, but it seemed like he'd just given himself a bunch more stupid irrational stuff to worry about. Great job, Dean, he thought, and tried to shake it off. They all had to be in a good headspace for the foreseeable future, focused, determined and aiming to win, and this sort of pointlessly self-destructive angsting was not helpful.

He flashed Sam a grin. "Race you back to the house?"

Sam didn't look convinced, but took off like a shot anyway.

\--

Dean was two weeks shy of eighteen when he rode in his first performance, in an earlier heat of the Western regional Grand Prix. He'd been learning the show as a back-up; he knew all the tricks and had been occasionally running through Martin's role in the show, but he'd been doing that since he was sixteen and had been able to do a passable-to-good job at all the basic stunts since he was fifteen; he was pretty much at a pro level by eighteen.

The prep area was hectic forty-five minutes before the show as the techies did last minute check-ups on the bikes, performance leathers were fiddled with and tightened, music was cued up and checked; Dean was lounging around one of the trailers, half keeping an eye on Sam as he scribbled away at an essay for history, half chatting up one of the venue ushers, cute little redhead with a clipboard.

Ellen came by, hair up in a messy bun, looking stressed. She had a helmet in one hand and three different sized wrenches in the other, and a walkie talkie shoved in her belt. "Dean," she said, poking him in the arm with a wrench, "you're up. Martin's ankle's playing up."

"What?" said Dean, but Ellen was already heading over to the control booth where she'd oversee effects and timing. "Bobby's cleared it," she yelled back over her shoulder.

"No, what the _fuck_?" said Dean.

Sam dropped his pen and looked up, grinning. "You've been saying you've been ready to actually be out there for months," he said, and closed the textbook, chucked it back into the trailer. "Come on!"

"But–" said Dean, but Sam had grabbed on to his shoulder and was steering him towards the bikes with way more strength than he should have had as the fourteen year old skinny kid he was.

That was how Dean found himself riding out on a cool Montana summer evening, the arena yawning in front of him, the announcer loud and excitable and the crowd roaring.

It was a regional early heat so it didn't have the hype and scope of some of the shows he'd later relish, but this – this was simultaneously the most amazing and terrifying thing that had happened to Dean at that point.

He could feel everything, in sharp relief, as if in that moment he was suddenly thrown into _living_ , more fiercely and wonderfully alive than he'd been before. He could feel the creaking tightness of the leathers around his knees and thighs; the low rumble of the bike between his legs, the sensation of each finger inside his gloves bent ready around the handlebars. The adrenaline fizzing through his veins and the rush of blood on his ears; the slight breeze over the exposed skin of his jaw and mouth and nose; the cheers of the crowd, the green of the display board, the popping flash of cameras from the media bay; and he could swear under the racket he could hear Sam screaming _go, Dean_! from somewhere behind him.

It wasn't the main role – Rufus was the main rider at that point – but it wasn't easy. The team split and circled the arena, picking up speed for tandem jumps, long ones with an extended heelclicker. It felt so easy in training, a basic heelclicker almost instinct at this point – push against the pedals with your feet to shove yourself off the seat in midair, press down with your arms to keep the bike straight, lift your legs high in the air either side and swing 'em forward to touch the heels together in front of the handlebars, swing' em back in and down and back on the pedals to brace for the landing and continue your ride. But the ramps seemed taller, the air seemed thicker, and Dean nearly froze up as he gunned it up the first ramp. But he was in the air, he was there, he was so high, he was dead center in the arena with the crowd around him, his team below him, the arena and the state and the country spread out underneath, and he did it. Easy, smooth, because he was born to do it.

He landed, feeling the shuddery impact jolt through him, and his body hummed all over with how fucking _awesome_ it was, that thrill of performing, rows of people watching him do what he loved and cheering for it. After that it was easy – he knew this shit backwards, he'd done it a hundred or more times and this way it was the same stuff except a hundred times more fun, in this proper huge arena with the crowd and the atmosphere. He circled and spun and by the time they were lining up for the group leap over the flame pit he felt like a fucking pro and knew there was no way he was letting Bobby bench him after this.

They rode out – the show overall hadn't been totally perfect, but it had been good and Dean felt as though he was riding about two feet off the air, his bike just carrying him on the cloud of fucking _awesomeness_.

"Dude!" Sam was running up to him and leaping at him before Dean could even get off the bike when they pulled up; Dean laughed and swung Sam up on to the bike, and Sam sat with his skinny legs flung over Dean's and hugged him. "That was so fucking awesome–"

"Language," said Dean on instinct, then laughed again. "Fuck yes it was. Did I rock it?"

"You rocked it so hard," said Sam immediately, and scrambled off the bike as Bobby came over. "Bobby, come on, let me–"

"Not yet, squirt," said Bobby, and then tugged Dean into a hug of his own, a brief but fierce one.

"Why not?" demanded Sam. He was all of five foot two, hands on his hips. "You know I have like, the best bar-hop on the team. I can ride in a show, come on!"

"Not while you don't got the horsepower in those measly little arms to jump more than five meters," he said, laughing, then tilted his head at Sam. "Though, if that growth spurt you've finally come into over the past two months continues, maybe it'll be sooner than we think. You reckon you could ride as good as Dean by the time you're eighteen?"

Sam had been growing like a weed recently, and he was still skinny and hilariously short for fourteen but there was something in his too-big hands and feet that Ellen swore meant he was gonna be as tall as his Dad. He scoffed. "Yeah! I'm gonna be taller than Dean by the time I'm seventeen, and I bet I'm gonna learn to backflip before he does."

"Hey," complained Dean mildly, still feeling buzzed and happy from the show, high-fiving the rest of the team as they came by. Sam had a real bee in his bonnet about learning to backflip, and Dean was pretty sure he was stubborn enough to grow faster than was humanly possible, now he'd started, to get big enough that Bobby deemed it safe to teach him.

It turned out it had been a trial of sorts – Martin wanted to retire and Bobby wanted to make Dean an official performer, and decided after that show that yep, he was ready. It meant he was listed on the brochures and got a little salary and everything, and though Dean didn't like to really think it, but it was after he joined that the team seemed to jump up a notch. He said it was just fresh blood renewing it, shaking things up a little, but Sam – who never gave up a chance to insult or rib Dean usually – would insist it was because Dean was the best rider in the team, so vehemently he'd get pissed when Dean would try to deflect it. Of course, Sam would go horribly red and tell Dean to shut the fuck up when Dean wouldn't stop going on about how Sam, at fifteen, was learning to backflip even faster than Bobby said he'd learned back in the day and could do it even better than most on the team.

Sam was irritatingly true to his word and was half an inch taller than Dean when he turned seventeen. By the time he rode in his first performance, the team was doing well – pretty solid, no longer struggling to qualify or only getting a couple heats in; they were regulars in semi and quarterfinals in the regionals, though never winning and never quite getting an aggregate score high enough to place on the National scoreboard.

The first time Sam rode out, he was trained and ready, fully planned unlike Dean's; he was joint lead role with Dean, because if one thing was obvious, it was that Sam and Dean worked together better than almost anyone Bobby said he'd known before. They were in sync enough that their tandem tricks were almost impossibly in time; they did a mirror-trick handstand jump and only Sam's longer arms and legs let you know there wasn't an actual mirror involved. They were both great riders individually. When they rode together, it was something else.

The first time Sam rode out, they won with a points margin so huge no-one could quite believe it; the sports media took note of their team properly for the first time, and the betting went haywire as they became the favorite underdogs. With Sam and Dean heading the team, they won regionals and got their first offer for a nationwide tour that fall.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

\--

Dean awoke with a start as the door to the truck slammed – Bobby and Sam were already unloading their stuff.

They had a couple static training locations that they rotated around throughout the season – three or so months in one in Iowa and three or so in the second half of the season in this one in South Carolina. They'd used to be based more localized in the Midwest, because Bobby, Mary and John had started the group in Kansas – they'd grown away from there but stayed in the mid ranks of the Midwestern regional scene; but as they'd grown bigger and better exponentially in the past few years they'd expanded rapidly. They now competed and toured across the whole country and sometimes even toured down into South America or across up into Canada, and they placed across the U.S. in multiple regional events, getting scored nationally, so they didn't need to stick in any one place. They'd got a good deal with a lot owner in South Carolina who gave them a huge space, facilities, good electric and plumbing, and acres of free dirt space with free reign to mold it as they wanted. Bobby had apparently been owed a favor, which no-one really questioned – it seemed as if someone owed Bobby a favor in every state.

Dean liked this camp more than the one in Iowa – it was open and pleasant, and on a good clear day you could feel the ocean, slight smell of it wafting through. The core team – all the performers, the top techies, and Ellen and a couple of her assistants – stayed there permanently in the trailers down at the south end of the lot past the garage sheds. The media monkeys, some of the other admins, and the show-only back-up techies worked for them remotely in an organizational capacity that Ellen oversaw, or joined them just for the shows.

Dean couldn't imagine saying he was part of a team like theirs without being there permanently. He didn't understand how you could pop in and out of a world like this, even though he recognized not everyone – almost no-one, really – grew up into it in the way he and Sam had. He had respect for everyone who was involved in Winchester's Hunters, but it wasn't _everyone_ that he considered a family. Those he lived with, sweated with, worked with every day – they were his family. That was the team, to him.

Sam was a little different to Dean in that respect. He had as a strong a bond with the core team as Dean did – it was a big part of their success and skill as a team, all knowing and trusting each other implicitly – but when it came to socializing in their GFMX circles he mostly gravitated to people that he saw less often. He was friendly and welcoming to new people or people he didn't see often and had a wider circle of changing acquaintances, but didn't easily form deep bonds in the same way Dean did. Ask one of the team and they'd say without hesitation Sam was one of their closest friends who they'd trust with their life, because he was harder to get close to but once you were in his circle you were there for life; but he wouldn't stay up all hours drinking with the guys. He'd be more likely to chill in the background with his nose in a book, or flit around making friends with other teams and management staff at venues.

It had never bothered Dean – different strokes, and as long as Sam had a bond with _him_ and his fellow riders Dean didn't give too much of a shit if he didn't know the names and ages of their second-string techies' grown kids – until he watched Sam chat up the cute blonde girl manning the hut at the lot entrance. He watched Sam grin at her as he lugged a duffel from the truck parked just inside the entrance over to their trailer, watched her laugh and help him carry stuff, and started thinking – what if Sam preferred talking to new people because he didn't feel like he fit in the team in the way Dean did? What if he didn't consider it a family as deeply as Dean did; what if he wanted to get out, meet more people, see the world outside of FMX stadiums?

Sam hefted the bag and chucked it into the open door of his trailer, his muscles shifting under his tan skin, contrasted with the black wifebeater he was wearing, and the blonde girl had her eyes glued to it, shifting back up to his face with a grin when Sam turned around.

Dean scowled. He was fully aware that his brother was attractive – his soft eyes and high cheekbones framed with dimples made him cute and approachable, and his height and lithe muscles made him tempting – so it wasn't like he could blame her, but it bugged him anyway.

"Sam," he called out, watched Sam's smile fade for a second as he turned his head at the shout then flash out again when he saw Dean.

"Hey! What's up?"

Dean waved Sam over, started walking towards where one of their equipment trucks was pulling up, bringing over their stuff from the other camp. "Quit slacking off and help unload," he shouted over tersely, though he slowed his steps until Sam jogged up next to him.

"What's your problem?"

Dean shrugged. "Nothing. We got a lot of work to do this afternoon if we want to get a full training day in tomorrow. Only two weeks until the semis."

"Right," said Sam slowly, and sometimes Dean hated that Sam could see through his moods. "Is it Cindy? You can have her."

"Way to be classy, Sam," said Dean, then, " _Cindy_? For serious?"

Sam was grinning. "I was kidding. You're the one who talks about girls like conquests, collecting them as we go. Anyway, yeah, Cindy. She's cute. She's helping out here at the lot with her uncle before college starts up again."

College. Of fucking course. Dean ignored the unhappy prickle in his spine. "College, huh? Well, I guess you can discuss the theory of relativity together, or whatever it is you geek types do, not like I know."

"Don't act like you're some dumb grunt, Dean, it's not cute."

"Whatever." Dean thumped a fist on the gate of the equipment truck bed to loosen it, then flipped up the catch and tugged it open, grabbed a crate full of wire ropes and heavy duty bolts. He hefted it and walked back towards the equipment shed, and turned his head back to see Sam looking after him intently, half of his bottom lip sucked into his mouth. Probably wondering what the hell Dean's problem was. Well, if Sam figured out, Dean hoped he could let him know too. Fuck.

He shook his head and kept on walking, focusing on the pull of the crate in his arms, the bunching strain of his muscles. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he yelled, twisted his head back around to see Sam look down quickly, fidget and turn to grab a box from the truck.

The land they rented was split into two main areas – they were in the central lot, with garages and storage sheds at one end and static plumbed-in trailers at the other end for accommodation. The lot was fenced in, and the dirt track that led out of the main gate split in two after a few meters, one leading to a road skirting the nearby town before joining the freeway. The other dirt track stayed just that, led half a mile through flat scrub to the two acre square space that was their 'arena'. There was a huge section down one end with permanent ramps set up like the regulation GFMX arenas, both narrow and wide for single precision and group jumps, for the leaps and midair tricks. The rest was flat land with some concrete-filled wells with metal hooks for affixing equipment, solid metal poles that lined the space for more hardware equipment; narrow trenches ran across various lines to be used for pyrotechnics. A long squat hut down one end was filled with the electrical controls connecting to the various charges and fire-burst technology in the arena.

This was where Bobby designed and finalized their shows, to meticulous detail, and where they'd run through them over and over until they knew every second of it; it was familiar and loved and hated, this site of endless practice and frustration and satisfaction.

Dean was there now; it was mostly empty as they hadn't set up the structure of this season's show yet, but he could still use the permanent ramps to practice some jumps and tricks. He kept meaning to smooth out his whip trick, thinking he could stand to get the twist of his bike tighter, but right now he was just jumping. He loved this, reveling in the height you could get, the feeling of flying, the weightlessness as you flew off the lip and soared right off into the air as if gravity simply wasn't an issue, as if all the forces of the world relinquished you for a few blissful seconds.

He was at the peak of a jump when he caught sight of a dust trail coming towards the arena, and instead of gunning his bike up the next ramp when he landed he skidded around in a circle to slow down, roaring up to the entrance to meet Sam as he pulled up.

"Hey," he said, tugging his helmet up and off.

"Hey," said Sam. "What are you doing?"

Dean shrugged. "Just some jumps, clear my head."

Sam look at him carefully. "Are you okay, dude? You've been a bit off since Vegas, and I know there was the whole – Mom and Dad time, but on top of that, you've been – I dunno. I'm worried about you."

His gaze was concerned and direct, like he cared about nothing more about Dean and this life and everything, and still Dean couldn't shake the stupid feeling like he was missing Sam before he'd even gone, with no logical reason for him to _be_ going.

He pushed his helmet back on, hiding his face. "Nothing, dude, I swear. I just – maybe the competition's getting to me. This is bigger than we've done before, and with Azazel screwing things up, it's a whole lot of pressure." Which wasn't untrue, though also wasn't what was eating at Dean, but it wasn't like he was going say, _oh, nothing, just worrying about whether you're going to leave me and that I'm enough of a loser that my little brother doing something else with his life would probably pretty much destroy me_.

Sam nodded, and bit his lip. "Yeah. It's all a bit fucked. Everyone's on edge, morale is really down in a lot of teams, especially the ones that've lost people to them. What if–" He trailed off.

Dean thumbed some dirt off the handlebars and frowned, looked at Sam. "What?"

"You know how Azazel has been approaching riders from different teams, trying to get the best to be a part of the Demons. What if – what if they come to us?"

It had crossed Dean's mind, but he hadn't really worried about it because of course nothing was going to make him leave Winchester's Hunters. They could offer him ten million dollars and he wouldn't even consider it. He looked at Sam sharply. "Why? Would you consider it?"

Sam's eyes widened and he looked horrified. "No! Christ! Come on, you _wouldn't_ think– you know me, man, you wouldn't think I'd even let them talk to me–"

Dean shook his head. "No. No, I know you wouldn't, I promise."

"I know I'm not – I'm not the main guy everyone loves like you are," started Sam.

"Dude–"

"No, lemme finish. I know that, and it's cool, I don't get close to people that easy anyway. I love the team like my family, you know that, I just don't bond as much. I just mean – I would never leave _you_. And that means never leaving the team."

Dean looked down. It bubbled warm in his chest, to hear Sam say that. "Well, good." He looked up. "So we know neither of us are going to leave, so even if they do approach us, we just say no. Simple. Anyway, there'd be no point in them trying to lure one of us away, they need both of us to be really awesome."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Speak for yourself, I could totally head a team by myself." Then his face cracked in one of his big smiles. "Man, I can't even keep a straight face saying that. I guess I'm stuck being a thousand times better with you than on my own. Come on, let's practice being awesome."

\--

Sam and Dean shared a trailer in the southwest corner of the lot, a couple down from Bobby's, next to the one Corbett and Victor shared; it was cozy, if you were being polite, and cramped and cluttered to all fucking hell if you were coming in after a hard day of lugging shit around and some training too, with sore arms and bruised shins, cracking your head on the too-low door and tripping over a pile of crap on the narrow floor.

"Jesus," said Dean, rubbing his head with a frown and navigating himself past the little kitchenette to his bed, a narrow single against the opposite wall of the trailer to Sam's own bed. He turned his head to bitch at Sam for leaving his stuff lying around, but Sam wasn't there, even though he'd been following Dean. Dean went back to the doorway and looked out, saw Sam halfway across the lot talking to Cindy again.

He stepped down, started towards them, then stopped. Sam was standing close to her, big grin on his face, and he looked happy and relaxed and Dean – well, Dean didn't want to think of himself as a cockblock. He went over to the garage instead and got underfoot as Travis started setting up, and didn't see Sam for the rest of the day.

He went to bed pretty early that evening, crashing out on the hard mattress because moving days always wore him out. Sam hadn't come to the trailer yet by the time he fell asleep.

Dean woke up later, not sure why until he heard a noise again. It was the light sound of a girl's laughter, and normally he'd sleep through that, but it was joined by the familiar timbre of Sam's voice, which was more than likely what had woken Dean up. He'd learned to become pretty attuned to Sam above others.

He dropped his head back on the pillow with a sigh, then sat up and tugged the thin curtain aside to peer out of the small window next to his bed, curious.

Cindy was sitting sideways on Sam's bike, legs dangling over the side, her little spiked heels closer to the engine than Dean would normally be happy with but Sam was obviously more focused on the girl than the bike. He was leaning in real close, slow smile on his face, and she was laughing up at him. She was cute, seriously cute, with mischievous eyes and a lush, wide smiling mouth. Dean raised an eyebrow as her hand landed on Sam's arm and stroked up. "Way to go, Sammy," he said under his breath, but he felt a bit knotted up, pissed, restless. Couldn't Sam take it somewhere else? This was a pretty secluded space as far as it went, here – butted up in the corner against the next trailer with a shed and the angle of the lot blocking the view from elsewhere – and sure, Corbett and Victor weren't in 'til tomorrow, but Dean was damn well here, and Sam knew it, knew he was right there; knew these windows weren't anything fancy, paper thin really; he could almost hear the words of their conversation.

Well. Not that they were having a conversation any more.

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. Yeah. He should really lie back down, pull a pillow over his head, whatever – ignore them, give Sam a big knowing grin in the morning and make him flush and smirk all half-embarrassed, half-pleased.

Dean kept on looking. He felt too warm, blankets pooling thickly around his waist, and he kicked them away, kept on watching as Sam leaned over, put one hand on the seat of the bike next to Cindy and the other on her pale delicate jaw as he kissed her.

Her arms came up around his shoulders and she was pushing his shirt off – he had his black wifebeater on underneath, still, stretched over his shoulders.

They were lit a little by the moon and mostly by the security lights that lined the fence around lot; it was enough to see the shift of Sam's muscles as he palmed her face, the soft blonde of her hair against his tan skin – like a porno, jesus. Yeah. That's why he was watching. Maybe he was a perv, whatever, she was cute and into it and it wasn't like there was any part of Sam he hadn't seen before–

Sam was pulling off her top, now, and she was braless underneath, pretty pert tits bouncing as the top came off, and then Sam's hands were on them, big and gentle, pulling a sound from Cindy's mouth, a hurt, pleased thing. Dean's breath hitched in a hard tug in his chest. Just – right there in the fucking open, they were practically in front of Dean's window.

Dean really needed to get laid. No other reason he'd keep – keep on watching this, watching as his little brother bent down and sucked her tight little nipple into his mouth, the light gleaming down on them enough to see how he pursed his lips around it; how Cindy's face creased in pleasure as her head tipped back, hair tumbling down to brush the bike seat.

No other reason he'd be fat and throbbing between his legs, pressing the heel of his palm against it to try and relieve some of the ache.

She pulled off Sam's wifebeater, spread her tiny little hands over the expanse of Sam's shoulders, up the graceful slope of his neck to clutch suddenly in his hair as he tugged at her skirt, dropped it to the ground in a floof of white fabric.

There was something crawling hotly up the back of Dean's neck, a slow realization that something wasn't right with him, but he kept watching. He watched as Sam hooked a finger in her panties and pulled them down. Watched as he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her a little, settled her more firmly on the seat and pushed her thighs apart – Dean could see everything, the pink of her pussy and the neat little triangle of hair. Normally – normally a girl on a bike, especially a naked girl on a bike, was one of the sexiest things Dean could think of, but he couldn't stop his eyes traveling up the curve of Sam's spine; Sam dropped to his knees and leaned in, and Dean could just see from this angle the wet flash of his tongue as he licked up her thigh before starting to eat her out in earnest.

Dean's hand was curled around his dick, now, moving in a helpless slow pump, and he could hear the girl's soft whimpers but he couldn't take his eyes off the sinuous movement of Sam's neck, the shape of his back narrowing into slim hips disappearing into his low-slung jeans, the pull of them over his tight little ass.

Jesus.

Dean was panting, breath coming in panicked, aroused huffs. He knew what was wrong; it was him. It wasn't the girl that was turning him on; it was pretty obvious, now, and denial had never been something Dean had indulged in all that much before. It wasn't even just the fact he was getting a free show – it was Sam. It wasn't just the sudden smack of realization that his brother was hot – which was something he knew objectively, but he'd never seen Sam be so explicitly sexualized, never seen him that way. Something about having that barrier shoved down in his brain was fucking him up. Because knowing your brother could be a sexual creature was something everyone had to realize at some point, but Dean was wired wrong, or something, because it was weird, sure, but it didn't disgust him; it turned him on in this desperate, crazy intense sort of a way. As if he wasn't a little bit screwy when it came to his brother already.

Cindy's slim legs crossed over Sam's back, hooking him forward, and she came with a choked-off wail Dean could hear. Sam ate at her for a few more seconds – god, Dean could see his mouth moving, slick busy lips and probing wet tongue, Sam's familiar pretty little _mouth_ – before she tugged him up. Dean went hot all over, a prickly flush of – horror, excitement, awful arousal, as her hands went to Sam's fly and Dean knew she was gonna get his dick out.

He bit down on his fist when she did, his other hand working his cock hard now; then he bit down on his lip instead and braced his hand on the wall, leaning forward, nose almost to the glass. Her hand made Sam's cock look almost impossible, big and thick against her slim fingers – she jerked it quick and sure, and Sam's head tipped back. He was a gorgeous line of smooth skin leading from his cock up his flat belly, along his chest and long neck, so tall and lithe in the orangey security lights. Dean wanted to touch, maybe wanted to kneel down and see that stretched out above him–

He heard Sam's low groan, and felt as if he was almost outside of his body, not controlling a thing, so dizzy and turned on he couldn't be contained in his skin; watching the fall of Sam's come over Cindy's arm, getting on her, on the bike – fuck, oh fuck.

Dean came, hand a frantic blur on his dick and feeling like he was being turned inside out. His eyes fell shut and he tensed all over, trying so hard not to make a sound. His hand was sweaty and slipped against the wall; he caught himself with his elbow to stop himself slamming his face into the glass, but the crash of his elbow against the wall was loud and his eyes flew open to see Sam look towards the trailer.

His body stiffened with fear, and he thought he might have a damn heart attack with the different emotions that had coursed through him like riptides in the past few minutes; he jerked back from the window, and with the angle the light was shining and the fact it was dark in the trailer, there was no way Sam could see him – Sam couldn't know–

Dean carefully lay back down, cleaned himself off with a t-shirt that he stuffed down the side of his bed, and stared into the darkness. His body was buzzing with the aftereffects of orgasm and adrenaline, limbs feeling hot and heavy, and his mind was blank. Mercifully. Like it was too much to even take in.

He closed his eyes, but he couldn't turn off his ears – he could hear them talking faintly, breathless, happy low words, intimate. Then quiet, quiet so thick Dean was straining so hard to hear anything that he jumped violently when the door to the trailer creaked open.

He held himself still, and heard Sam walk in; heard him take off his shoes, walk to his bed. Dean still had his eyes closed, but he could sense Sam; could sense him step up to Dean's bed and stand there, so close in the dark, looking down at Dean. Dean breathed deep and even, and hoped Sam wouldn't – would – do anything, something, nothing. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, thick and unrelenting, and after a few endless moments, he heard Sam move, turn away, move across the short distance to his own bed.

\--

He opened his eyes in the morning, feeling as if he hadn't slept at all, but he must have a little because it had still been dark the last time he'd been staring across the darkness to Sam's bed, and now dawn was glowing along the east horizon, the pale pink and blue sky washing the still-quiet lot with a weak light.

He rubbed a hand over his face and flinched away when he realized he could still faintly smell come on his hand; his belly tugged in a visceral reminder of what he'd seen last night, and what he'd felt. He swallowed and looked over at Sam, and he looked exactly the same as ever – his face was made up of features Dean knew so well, had seen them change and grow from Sam's childish face as a boy, through to the man he was now, it was just _Sam_. Except he was also beautiful, and Dean couldn't not see it now.

He looked away and got out of bed, legs feeling a little weak from how little sleep he'd gotten, and made his way into the small shower in the bathroom tucked at the back of the trailer, didn't bother to keep it quiet as he yanked the door open and thumped a fist on the wall next to the shower controls to loosen up the pipes. He heard Sam snort as he awoke, then all he could hear was the patter of the shower, and he stepped into the spray, wishing he could wash away everything that was wrong with him.

Ten minutes later and he felt exactly the same – though at least he couldn't smell his own come on himself now – so he got out with a sigh, scrubbed himself dry and tugged on clothes before joining Sam in the kitchenette. He looked at Sam and tried to see _little brother_ and nothing else, but it was hard when he could see the faint red marks Cindy's mouth had left on his neck and everything he'd watched last night started looping in glorious technicolor through his head. He pursed his lips and sat down. "Make me some eggs," he said, like it was any other morning.

Sam slurped on a cup of coffee and pushed one over the little counter towards Dean. "No eggs. No deliveries till this afternoon. Only have bread and milk and coffee."

"Well, at least that's three of the major food groups," Dean muttered, and then had to grin when Sam laughed, and was almost surprised to realize he could still do that. Stuff had changed and happened in Dean's head, but nothing was really different between them.

"Fine," he said, and put some toast under the grill, and watched the lot out of the window, because he still couldn't quite look at Sam directly.

Though he was pretty sure Sam was looking at _him_.

He coughed. "What do you think we're gonna be working on today?"

Sam was silent for a few more moments, and Dean could _feel_ his determined stare like a finger pressing into the side of his head, before Sam gave a short exhale through his nose and shrugged. "Dunno. Probably start off on tightening up the formation riding, when the rest of the team arrive."

"Think Corbett and Victor are coming in about midday," said Dean.

Sam nodded. "Yeah – and I think Ellen and Jo are heading over this morning."

Sam kept eying Dean as they finished breakfast, chucked stuff in the little sink to be washed when they could be bothered later, and headed out into the lot when they saw Bobby up and about – but Dean didn't take the bait. He didn't even know what Sam wanted him to say, whether it had anything to do with last night or not – and it wasn't like Sam knew anything about the crazy shit going through Dean's head. All Sam knew was that Dean had maybe been awake last night; maybe Dean could have just glanced out of the window and then made a noise or maybe he could have walked into something on the way to the bathroom, Sam didn't have to know anything.

Or maybe Sam didn't even want to talk about that; but it felt like there was something, something a little bit dangerous there, and Dean was just going to wait for it to pass. There wasn't anything else he could do.

Trucks rumbled up to the gates at about ten, and Dean watched as Cindy jumped down from the little hut by the gates to pull them open.

"Hey," he said, without really thinking, "s'your girlfriend." He tried to hide a wince – there had been way too much bitterness in that. Stupid.

Sam looked at him, head whipping around, and didn't say anything. Dean tried not to fidget, scowled slightly as Sam looked at him. He wished he hadn't said anything. He told himself that there was no way Sam could know for sure he was watching – that he even saw anything last night. He lifted his chin. "What?"

Sam stared another second, then shrugged, smooth roll of his shoulders, and looked away. "She's not my girlfriend," he said easily, and wandered over towards the gates. Dean watched as Sam got closer to Cindy, not sure if he was relieved or irrationally let down when Sam waved at her and went over to greet Ellen and Jo instead of – kissing her, or whatever. He watched Cindy bounce back up into the hut, her blonde hair bright in the sunlight, and remembered in a hot rush how it had looked – Sam's mouth busy at her pussy, her hands wrapped around Sam's dick.

He hated her for a moment, and it was unfair, but it wasn't like she was ever going to know. She got Sam, and she – she'd worried Dean from the start, even though he'd known Sam to hook up with his share of girls before.

It was what Bobby had said, and the fact she was at college; she'd represented in a real way, that none of the other girls had, a _way out_ for Sam. No matter she almost certainly didn't represent that to Sam – it had never even crossed Dean's mind that one day Sam might look for a way out. She was all this new worry wrapped up in a hate-able cute little package.

Or maybe that had been subconscious rationalizing of his pure fucking jealousy, before he'd been slammed over the head with the fact he wasn't normal, how he felt about Sam.

Hell, maybe Sam _should_ leave with her. Maybe he'd be better off away from Dean, if this was the sort of thing going on in Dean's head – maybe Sam would be a whole lot better far away from it.

"Hey!" Jo was in front of him suddenly.

He blinked down at her. "Hey, kiddo," he said. "Sorry, I was out of it then."

"Don't _kiddo_ me, jackass, I've been calling your name for like a million years."

"A million, huh?"

"A million and one. Get your bike, you're helping me with tightening up my legs on my pendulum kick trick today."

He looked over at Sam and raised his eyebrows in a _what can you do?_ sort of a way, but Sam was unloading shit from the truck and not looking at him for once this whole damn morning. Dean sighed and went to get his bike from the garage.

He got there as Jo was astride her bike jamming on a helmet, and she grinned at him as she stood up and jumped on the kickstart pedal; the engine caught with a growl and she zoomed off. "Last one there's a fucking douchebag!" she yelled, and Dean shook his head and couldn't find his damn helmet, resigned himself to being a fucking douchebag. Wasn't that far off the truth.

He and Jo had hooked up a couple of times in the past couple of years, casual, fun, easy; and he considered it, now – but it was pretty monumentally unfair to Jo, and he did like her. Enough to not use her as an outlet for his incestuous angst – and shit, that was the first time he'd let himself think that word since he'd jerked off watching his brother last night. He nearly lost his balance as he wobbled out of the garage, and scowled, determined that he wasn't going to think about it again today.

It worked for a while – he liked working with the other performers on their tricks, thought maybe one day once he was old and damaged enough that he couldn't ride in shows he could always go the coaching route. He watched Jo's technique critically, could see where the looseness in her torso translated down into her legs – how keeping her core tight and her elbows in would keep everything else under better control. She was a terrible student, more swear words than normal words that she spat at him as she went over and over and over the ramps, but she got better, scowled and said _fuck you_ when Dean told her how much better she was after just a few hours with him, then grinned sunnily at him, said thanks, and roared off before Dean could tell her _you're welcome_ or _fuck you very much too_!

He stayed in the arena for a few minutes, taking in the silence, dropping his head back to stare up at the huge sky, before pulling himself together and turning the ignition and kicking the starter. The bike shuddered to life between his legs and he relished the familiar feel of it, the low coughing growl of the engine splitting through the silence, and he headed back to camp.

Dean parked his bike in the garage and gave it a quick look-over, brushed off some dirt, and stayed in the cool quiet of the garage for a few moments, until he heard the familiar sound of Sam's Kawasaki KX65 practice bike growling nearby. He leaned at the entrance to the garage and saw Sam doing some sharp figure-eights further down in the open dirt space in the middle of the lot.

No pads, leathers, no helmet, no shirt even – Bobby would never let him go anywhere near the public like that and would probably rip him a new one for even doing basic riding without any protection, but Sam had always been more reckless than Dean, said he liked the sensation of riding without a helmet. Dean told him he was sure he'd love the sensation of his brains splattered over the ground, but Sam would just laugh at him.

He looked half oddly vulnerable on a bike like that, and half untouchable in his confidence – nothing but a grubby pair of low-slung jeans on his hips and a fine sheen of sweat on his shoulders.

Sam gripped the handlebars and tugged the bike around in a roaring sudden wide spin, looping around and curving towards Dean, throwing up a sheet of dirt in his direction. "Like the view?" he hollered, and Dean started.

He looked away, trying not to flush, and fiddled with the visor on his helmet. _Fuck you_ , he wanted to say. "Put on a fucking shirt or I'll push you off your goddamn bike and see how you get on without half your skin," he said instead, ignoring Sam's words and turning back into the garage.

"Jeez," said Sam, catching up to him, turning off the engine and walking the bike along with his long legs, "touchy."

Dean put his helmet back on the hook by his bike. "It's like you want me to have a heart attack," he said, trying to lighten the mood, but Sam still looked at him all concerned. All that bare skin was making it hard to concentrate.

Sam sighed and slouched back on his bike. "I'm bored. Corbett and Victor are coming in late today so we're not starting group practice 'til tomorrow. Come do some flips with me."

Dean shrugged, feeling petty. "Maybe I have better things to do. Why don't you hang out with Cindy?"

"She's gone," said Sam nonchalantly. "Summer school, or something?"

Dean looked at him. "Oh. You, uh. You miss her?"

Sam looked at him oddly. "No. I mean, she was cool, but it wasn't – a thing. It was just, you know, a _thing_. We both knew that."

Dean nodded, biting his lip. "Yeah." It was like picking at a scab. "You ever think – it might be nice one day to not have someone leave? To not have to be so – tied to wherever the team is."

Sam scrunched up his face. "Huh? Dean – what, you think one day I'm going to follow a girl out of here? That's – not going to happen."

"You don't know that," mumbled Dean.

Sam huffed out a sigh. "You seem determined to have me leave, recently, talking about college and girls, and – Dean, look. I know you don't want to talk about stuff. Like, ever. But if this is some way of saying that _you_ want to leave–"

Dean shook his head immediately. "Jesus, no, no way. Sorry. I'm fucking this up. Ignore me."

Sam bit his lip. "Right. Dean–"

Dean put his hands up. "Let's do some flips, yeah?"

Maybe he should leave, before this got out of control. Before he got even further screwed up. Maybe he should take himself away from Sam, instead of worrying that Sam would take himself away from Dean. It was probably not a good thing that Dean knew there was no way he'd ever be strong enough to do that.

If he wasn't strong enough to leave, he'd just have to be strong enough to resist this. No problem.

\--

Bobby went around the lot at 5.30 a.m. the next morning thumping on each door and yelling loud enough to be heard inside all the trailers, " _Up and at 'em, lazybones, we got a show to practice!"_

The performers stumbled, bleary eyed, out of their respective trailers a few minutes later, clutching cups of coffee, and huddled by the garage, waiting to wake up enough to be safe on a bike.

"Hey guys," said Dean around a yawn, and everyone nodded back. This was their full team of six – Sam and Dean, Jo and Tamara, Corbett and Victor – and three back up riders: Andy, Jake and Bela, all riders with a little less flair but solid reliability, essentially understudies for any part in the team.

"Good break?" asked Sam, holding on to his coffee cup like a lifeline and making it look like a toy, but Bobby strode over then before any conversation could get going.

"Quit nattering, guys, what do you think you are, friends or something?" Bobby grinned. "On your bikes."

He threw a leg on his own – it was a newer version of a Yamaha YZF, more a hefty sportsbike than their modified light stunt bikes, but as Bobby didn't perform any more and rarely demonstrated a trick, he opted for a solider and slightly fancier bike, just because he could.

Not that Dean was jealous – he liked the look of heavy road bikes sometimes, big beasts of ones, but his slim Kawasaki stunt bike with its high wheel arches and tucked-away engine owned his heart in a rather ridiculous way. He didn't think he'd feel all that comfortable in a bike that he couldn't lift up in an easy wheelie on a whim, that he couldn't spin and twist and turn on a dime.

They set off towards the practice arena, falling into formation – three parallel pairs in a row – almost instinctively, making unconscious little adjustments to speed and positioning to keep a rider in line with their partner and and equal distance from the riders in front and behind.

They swung into the arena and scattered, before forming a loose semi circle around Bobby, who took off his helmet.

"Okay, guys, listen up. We've had a nice little break after the win in Vegas, but that was just the quarterfinals. Two quarters make a semi, which makes it–"

"Twice as hard," chorused the team.

"Aw, am I predictable or something? No backchat, whelps. We got just over a week 'til we're headed to Miami for the semis, which isn't long but if we work hard, we can get even better – even higher, tighter–"

"Just the way you like 'em!" hollered Dean.

"What'd I say about backchat? You're not too old to take over my knee, boy."

"Ew, too much information," shouted Tamara, and the group dissolved into laughter.

Bobby allowed it for a while, smile tugging at his mouth, before he raised his hands. "Hey. Hey! I love you guys, but we need to focus. This isn't regionals. This isn't just any competition. This is _Apocalypse_ , it's our first real chance to show that we're the best. That we're the most awesome, talented, tight-knit team out there, and that we're better than whatever bullshit Azazel is trying to pull over – yeah," he said as everyone muttered. "Yeah, exactly. We know we're better than that team, in every way, and we need to be fucking perfect, so we can _show_ them."

Everyone settled at that – Jo was frowning fiercely in that intent way she had, as if Azazel were in front of her right now; Sam gripped his hands on the handlebars, like he was giving it gas to get out there straightaway and beat them – there was a focus and energy about everyone that was exciting and filled Dean with this rush of affection for his team.

They did a basic run-through first, going through the structure though not doing the tricks, simple jumps in their place, to make sure they knew the structure inside out; then Bobby split people up to practice particular moves.

Sam was a little way across the lot, practicing backflips while Dean worked with Victor on their tight circle spins. He braked out of one and closed his eyes tight to dispel the slight dizziness, and opened them, glancing over in Sam's direction.

Sam was grinning, visible even from under his helmet, head twisted around to joke with Tamara as he pumped at the gas, then faced forward and sped towards the high ramp and up it. The angle was wrong from the second his wheel left the ramp – a little too high, pointed up a degree or two more than he should have been. Sam either needed to pull into the flip straightaway if he wanted to keep the momentum, or ride the height into a curve and direct the bike down to the landing ramp, and he had less than a fraction of a second to pick. If he flipped this early, he risked angling too low on the descent and missing the landing ramp; if he turned it into a simple leap, he risked peaking too high and losing momentum too early. Dean could see the tension of indecision in Sam's arms, felt an answering panic slam into his chest; Sam tugged the bike around into a flip, but he'd left it a split second too late. He'd lost the power he'd left the ramp with, and when the bike was vertical it was clear it wasn't going to go all the way around.

  
Dean was off his bike and running towards the ramp, as Sam did what he was meant to do when you fucked up mid-air, and separated himself from the bike; but he was falling fast and his legs were long. He wasn't far enough away from the bike when they both landed on the thick crash mat under the ramp, and Dean couldn't tell from this angle if he'd landed messily or collided with any part of the bike.

 

He could hear Bobby shouting something, but he couldn't hear what it was, didn't give a shit because he needed to know Sam was okay, right the fuck now. He reached the edge of the mat and climbed onto it, stumbled awkwardly over to Sam who was still lying in a heap next to his bike. He fell to his knees next to Sam and swore loudly when it jostled Sam, because if Sam had hurt his neck the last thing Dean should be doing was shaking him around. "Sam?" he said, frantic. "Sam, fucking, are you – fucking tell me–"

Sam moved, then, groaned low, and moved his head, hand coming up to paw at his helmet.

Dean's breath shuddered in relief, because he was alive and hadn't fucked up his neck if he was moving it – but he could still be injured. He reached down with hands that were shaking pretty badly and helped Sam tug his helmet off. Intellectually he knew that if Sam was moving and making noise he wasn't too badly hurt, that this was the kind of thing that happened to them all the time, it was a hazard of the job he embraced when it came to himself and he had no right to freak out over it now – but it was _Sam_. It was Sam.

He got Sam's helmet off and leaned down closer. Sam blinked a little groggily at him. "Ow," he said plaintively.

Dean exhaled. "What hurts?"

Sam frowned and wriggled around a little experimentally. "Nothing bad, I think. Think I'm just winded."

"What the fuck happened?"

"Not paying proper attention, I guess."

"On a fucking backflip? You're a reckless _jackass_."

Sam blinked up at him, not moving. "And you're a peeping tom."

Dean went hot all over, confused and panicked. He didn't even pretend to not know what Sam was talking about. "Fuck you. Maybe you should learn some fucking privacy." He was horribly aware of how close they were. Dean was bent down right over Sam, curved over his body, so focused on him, their faces close enough Dean could feel the soft warmth of Sam's breath against his skin.

Sam kept looking at him intently, strangely, something terrifying and unknown in his eyes. "Maybe I didn't want privacy. Maybe I picked that spot for a reason."

Blood was roaring in Dean's ears, and – he couldn't deal with this. Sam's near-death experience was enough emotional drama for one day, so he slammed down a wall against Sam's words and what the fuck he meant and what Dean was feeling. He set his jaw and glared at Sam, then shoved himself up. "Check your bike's okay then get the fuck back on it," he said, and helped tug Sam up, letting go of his hand as soon as Sam was wobbling upright on the mat.

He reached out to smack Sam on the side of the head and yelled over towards Bobby, "He's fine," and stalked back over the where he'd let his own bike fall to the ground.

\--

It seemed as though Dean blinked, a second of his life ticking past a blurring rush of training, and it was suddenly the day before they left for Florida, two days out from the semifinal. There would be three other teams competing at the semis; the top two teams from each quarterfinal got through to the semis with a elevated point advantage to start from, but only the winner of each semi went through to the final. The last round of Apocalypse would be one-on-one; the best two teams putting on the best two shows.

Dean couldn't imagine that they wouldn't be there – but they had to win their semi, first, and that wasn't anything to be dismissed. Dean was walking around with the constant threat of nerves under his skin – some riders didn't get nervous, but Dean did, couldn't help it. He was usually pretty good at translating it into a mix of manic energy and sheer stubborn determination, but sometimes he somewhat craved the placid calm that Corbett managed to sink into or the fierce confidence Victor projected so strongly he was pretty sure he'd actually bought into it enough to banish any real nerves.

At least Sam was in the same boat. His moods started swinging all over the place in the days before a competition, snapping at Dean for breathing too loud one minute, the next being expansive and affectionate. His big warm hand on the back of Dean's neck didn't really help Dean's peace of mind.

They were getting in one last session of intensive detail-oriented training, before they'd pack up over the afternoon and pile into the tour bus to sleep through the night – hopefully – as it joined their train of equipment vans winding down the freeway for the overnight ten-to-twelve hour drive down to the stadium in Miami.

Of course, the extreme sports world was starting to whip up into a fever pitch as the competition approached, each stage more exciting than the last – today was the day they'd allowed a few media groups into the lot, to do some interviews and get some footage of their training to air on the biking shows on the extreme sports channels, and for advertising spots to whip up excitement and viewers for the airing of the actual competition on ESPN2. They would, of course, get some good old tight close-ups of the Kawasaki logos splashed across their bikes and pasted along the sides of their equipment vans – Ellen would make sure of that.

Dean maneuvered Sam into the garage for pointless but reassuring checks of their engines, brakes and suspension, carefully waited until Sam's mood sprang from introspective and sulky to bouncy and magnanimous, and shoved him gratefully out into the clutches of a perky reporter from a FMX show on the _Versus_ channel, distracting her enough that Dean could run and escape in helping Ellen stack up some of the safety nets.

"You have that kid wrapped around your little finger, don't you," she said amused.

Sam turned around, obviously still close enough to hear, grinned wide and said, "That's what he likes to think!" then turned back towards the reporter and charmed her effortlessly.

Yeah, it was pretty much the other way around. It probably would have been healthier if that hadn't just made Dean grin, shrug and carry on.

Dean didn't sleep too well on coaches whilst they were traveling, and he knew that underneath him in their bunks, Sam probably wasn't any closer to dropping off, as they rumbled south down the freeway towards Florida. Even with the whirring of the A/C in the coach, Dean imagined he could feel the air getting thicker and wetter around them. He'd always kind of liked the humidity of Miami the times they'd competed there – preferred it to the burning heat of the desert, and he'd never been afraid of a little sweat.

Sam sweated an obscene amount, though, he probably was even now just from being in closer proximity to the humidity. Dean flopped his arms around in restless irritation. Sam would totally be awake. He should entertain him.

Dean peered his head down underneath his bunk, and sure enough saw Sam's feet shifting around restlessly poking over the end of the narrow bunk. "Psst," he whispered down.

"Mmm?"

"You awake?"

"No, I'm talking in my sleep."

"Shut up, I can't sleep."

"Neither can I. I think I've gone over the show fifteen times in my head so far tonight."

"Over-thinker. You have too much brain for your own good."

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. "Can't tell me your mind's not going a million miles a minute. I know what you get like before a show. You were the one said you couldn't sleep."

The bus rumbled on through the night, the familiar _swooshes_ of traffic flashing past them in the other direction, the shifting light of headlights flickering under the edges of the curtains over the bus windows.

Dean sighed. "Mmm hmm. I keep feeling like I'm on a bike. I keep twitching like my body thinks I'm in mid-air trying to stay on my bike. Keep jolting awake every time I feel like I could sleep."

"We should have brought some weed."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, go into the semis high. Bobby would love that."

"Least we'd be chilled out. Fuck, can you imagine what it's going to be like before the _final_?"

"Assuming we get there–"

Sam snorted quietly. "Right, like you can see anyone but us and Azazel's Demons being in that final."

Dean made an affirmative noise. "Yeah, but, you know. Counting your chickens, and all that."

"All we ever do is count our chickens before they're hatched, and so far we keep on winning every time we say we're going to."

"You're starting to sound like Bobby."

Sam laughed, muffled like he was trying to keep it quiet with a hand or a pillow or something. "No, if I was being Bobby, I'd be like, _the final is like four quarterfinals so it's four times as hard so shut the fuck up, you morons, you all suck, in my day I listened to my coach and we had to build our bikes with our bare hands from mud and straw and the ramps were uphill both ways–_ "

His 'Bobby' voice squeaked and growled at the same time, and Dean was laughing so hard that a shoe came flying down from the bunks Corbett and Victor were sleeping in halfway down the bus.

"Shut the fuck up, Winchesters!"

Sam lost it then, too, and Dean's stomach hurt with laughing, but he felt free and relaxed inside like he hadn't for days. Of course, looking down at Sam and seeing the flash of his eyes and teeth in the dimness sparked off a flood of – thoughts, memories, phantom sensations; thoughts of Sam and Cindy and a dark pull of want for Sam. For his long legs and small private smile and dark eyes and mobile mouth, all these images rushing in unbidden, like the only thing keeping _that_ particular issue at bay had been the rush of nerves about the approaching competition; as soon as that faded, as soon as he could distract himself away from that, the Sam problem flooded back in.

He remembered Sam underneath him on the crash mat, saying things that he couldn't understand, something like promise in his eyes that Dean couldn't believe in, because only Dean was that messed up; Sam just liked to poke at things, niggle and prod and fuck around, he didn't and _couldn't_ – he couldn't know how dangerous this was.

He looked down at Sam again as they managed to shut up and settled back into silence to try and sleep, and thought – _no fucking way I can lose this. I can't fuck this up._ He'd have to deal with it. He couldn't let himself lose Sam to it, and if anything ever – if – he knew he would. He'd lose Sam, somehow, so there was only one option – to fucking _deal_. So he'd deal.

\--

 _Jo had had a tumultuous relationship with biking in general, GFMX in specific, for her whole life. She'd been born into it like Sam and Dean, Ellen involved with the Hunters since its inception – but she had a certain guilt about it, because she knew her mom loved biking and she also knew her mom had given it up the second she'd gotten pregnant, and although Ellen never regretted it, Jo had a hard time convincing herself she wasn't a burden and a source of resentment. Not helped, of course, by the fact her dad had run off as soon as he'd realized Ellen was pregnant, nothing but a cloud of dust rolling up frantically from his back wheels to leave them with._

 _Dean – and most of the team, really – had known before Jo admitted to herself that Jo both adored biking and was talented at it; it was something that took Jo a while to accept, that the thing she knew her mom loved and refused to do because of her was something that Jo wanted to make her life. Tamara joined the team and helped her work through it and find her joy in the sport at just the right time – both for Jo and, luckily, for the team._

 _Jo had always been close to both Sam and Dean, going through kiddy friendship playing in the dirt, through teenage hero worship, crushing – specifically on Dean, which Dean was pretty sure was only because he was older and in his sexual peak just as Jo was discovering her own sexuality; eventually a few casual hookups, evolving finally through to a mature adult friendship, which only properly settled once Jo was a full time rider with the team._

 _She was emotional, angry, reckless and the best female rider on the entire GFMX scene, her and Tamara one of the best partnerships Dean had seen outside of himself and Sam. She made her mom prouder than any career in anything outside of biking could have done._

\--

Dean woke up with a start as the horn blared from the front of the bus, squinting blearily into the light from the windows on the opposite wall of the bus, blinds yanked up.

He could see they'd arrived – he'd slept later than he thought he'd manage. They were swinging into the outskirts of the stadium, rumbling across gravel into the chaos of the allocated team sites. The few acres of space behind the stadium had been split into spaces for the teams competing – a garage and an area for equipment vans and accommodation trailers. Some teams still stayed in hotels further down the freeway for the two days the competition spanned, but there weren't any really close to the stadium so a lot of teams including theirs opted to stay on-site in the provided trailers.

It was chaos as everyone arrived, people and vans and bikes and shit everywhere, and it didn't help Dean's nerves, but he couldn't help but grin, too. This was it, this was what they lived for, these competitions, and the bustling rush of people and bikes, like-minds everywhere. The way that even though you were competing against these people you still felt strangely close to them, because they were like you – they knew this life, they were immersed in it too. It was always a charged but _good_ atmosphere. There was appreciation and respect and camaraderie.

Or at least – there was, when it was all teams where loyalty was important. That, Dean could understand, relate to, get on with. He was just glad that Azazel's Demons weren't drawn for this semifinal round, that this atmosphere wasn't sullied by their presence and the awkward knowledge that at this level, most teams had lost someone to them or at least had to resist the temptation.

Sam was already awake, sitting up front by the driver, face practically pressed to the passenger side window, taking it all in. He loved arriving at a new place; Dean always felt a little stressed out and unmoored until they'd properly settled into their site, trailers claimed and bikes and equipment organized to their liking, but Sam liked jumping right into it, scouting out the area and making friends with the people either side, until he'd got his fill of new information and people, and came back satisfied to chill and prepare.

The bus shuddered to a stop and everyone got off, lugging their duffel bags with them, finding their trailers and dropping them there, before heading back to the entrance to help wave the vans in and start unloading the bikes, equipment, everything.

It took a good few hours and Dean enjoyed it, everything so wonderfully familiar and thrilling. They were in the team site nearest to the stadium and Dean kept looking over, eyes following the sides up and his mind always inside, eager for the crowd and noise and competition to start.

He got talking to the leader of the team next to them, Gordon's Vamps, who told Dean it was his last ride out in a performance before retiring; Dean wished him luck, and they shared a dark look when Azazel came up in conversation. Dean didn't want to pry further, but he was pretty sure Gordon's Vamps had been one of the teams whose best rider had been lured over.

After about 5 p.m. when all the teams had arrived and mostly settled in, the atmosphere died down a little, became less manic but still as charged. The competition itself kicked off at 5 p.m. exactly the next evening, though there were displays, exhibitions not just of FMX but other extreme sports shows going on the first evening, though most of the competing teams didn't like to watch those – a pervasive superstition about not going into the stadium until it was time to compete. This was just to warm up the crowds.

Ellen had come by earlier, as Dean and Bobby had been securing their bikes in the temporary garage, to wave a piece of paper at them and say she'd found out that they were scheduled to ride last out of the four teams.

"Of course," said Dean smugly to Sam after he'd located him talking to some blue-eyed kid from Gordon's team and tugged him off to get some jumps in at the practice ramps behind the team sites. "Save the best, you know?"

Sam grinned and gunned the engine up the tallest ramp, executing a perfect backflip which got a few claps from the others people using the ramps.

Dean circled around to him, and they took their helmets off and sat astride their bikes for a moment. The sun was hot and angled in the sky; it was a few hours off sunset yet but the sunlight was colorful and heavy with afternoon, and Sam had his eyes closed as it washed over his face. "We're going to win this," he said.

Dean blinked and took a moment to focus on what Sam was saying. "I – well, duh."

Sam opened his eyes and grinned. "I can feel it." His smile faded a little bit. "Paul – the guy I was talking to – he said his cousin was the guy that Azazel managed to get. His cousin and his best friend and somehow Azazel could convince him to leave his team, just let them and Paul struggle on." He shook his head. "We can't let them – Azazel or the Demons who were lured over – think that it was worth it. We gotta get there and we gotta beat them."

Dean breathed in, could smell the humidity in the air and dust rising off the ground and engine grease and the slight bite of Sam's sweat, and nodded, smiling at him. "Oh, don't you worry, brother. We will."

\--


	3. Chapter 3

\--

They practiced for a while longer but didn't want to tax their bikes or their bodies too much the night before the competition, and headed back to the site not long after. People were still milling around everywhere and Dean lost Sam somewhere on the way back, but figured he was talking to Paul again or had made a new friend or whatever.

After dinner, though, when it was falling dark and they should at least start thinking about getting an early night, and Sam still hadn't wandered back in, Dean frowned. He needed to keep a bell on that kid.

He waved to Bobby and headed out over to Gordon's site, though didn't see Sam anywhere, nor when he wandered down past the entrances to the others. He walked around and back towards the practice ramps and when he was in a deserted site, one of those used for when there were more teams competing in an event, heard voices coming faintly from behind the empty garage.

There was murmuring, a low laugh, and that definitely sounded like Sam, but–

Silence, then, and Dean stepped closer, feeling jittery and strange. He stepped around the side of the garage, then walked around to the back. Stepped out past the wall, to see.

It was both a punch of a surprise and also somehow what Dean had been expecting, but – jesus fucking christ.

It was the other guy Dean saw first – Paul, he thought, the guy Sam had been talking to from Gordon's team. He was leaning against the back wall of the garage, head tipped back and eyes closed and legs spread – Sam was kneeling on the ground, between them, sucking the guy off.

Sam had his eyes closed, too, this look of sheer fucking bliss on his face as his lips stretched around Paul's dick; his head moved sinuously, a long slow slide as he sucked it down, big hand wrapped around the bottom of it.

Maybe Dean made a noise – he couldn't tell, couldn't hear anything, couldn't even feel his fingers, gut-punched numb and breathless – or maybe Sam sensed him, but his eyes slitted open, fixed right on Dean. Sam didn't quit, just went all the way down in an easy slide, then up to purse his pink lips around the swollen cockhead and suck.

Dean's chest seized up with horrified want, confusion and sheer violent jealousy, before he snapped into helpless action. He stumbled forward a graceless step, then dragged his eyes up to Paul's face.

"Hey," he shouted, watching in vicious satisfaction as Paul whacked his head on the wall as he jerked in surprise, eyes flying open and body curling in on itself in a futile attempt at modesty as he saw someone watching.

Sam sat back on his heels much more leisurely, wiping his mouth as Paul swore and stuffed his dick back in his pants.

Dean could feel his hands curling into fists.

"Dean–" said Sam, but Dean ignored him, advancing on Paul. He felt a little insane and he really, really wanted to punch the guy in the face for touching his brother.

"Get your fucking fag ass away from my brother and your diseased dick out of his mouth, and run back to your own fucking site, or I'll hit you so goddamn hard you'll hit the dirt two states over!"

"Dean!" exclaimed Sam, shocked out of the infuriating nonchalance. "Sorry," he said to Paul, but Paul was already high-tailing it out of there, damn good job.

Dean was breathing hard and he felt a little bit dizzy. Sam, just – so fucking eager to suck down that guy's cock, like it was no big deal, like he wanted it so much.

Sam stood, pulling himself up to his full height, shoulders angry and tense, and he strode up to Dean. Dean could see the ridge of his still-hard cock inside his jeans, and wrenched his eyes away to stare defiantly at Sam's face.

Sam's eyes were dark and angry and almost more dangerous to look at.

"What the fuck is your problem, Dean?" he spat, getting right up into Dean's space until the hair prickled violently over the back of Dean's neck, and he took a step back until he was nearly the one leaning back against the wall. "You fucking – cockblock me, then you call Paul a _fag_ and scare the shit out of him – and I know you're not some homophobic caveman douchebag, so what gives?"

Dean could feel the metallic taste of guilt in the back of his throat about the slur, because he was the last person to judge how people got their rocks off if it wasn't hurting anyone – but he'd spat out his roiling emotions in words, and anyway damned if he was going to apologize to Sam. Back down to him. The blood in his veins was rushing hot and restless, snapping around his body; and he wanted to fight, to punch and move, at the same time he was fucking terrified about what else might go wrong inside him – what else he might do – if he got too close to Sam right now.

"Oh, Paul will get over it," he sneered. "The fuck, Sam? Why couldn't you have told me you like dick sometimes, instead of – springing it on me like that." As if he wasn't having enough trouble around Sam as it was. Without that image.

Sam spread his hands out, challenging, looking so big and tall and wide and aggressive it made Dean's heart pound faster. "Because it's none of your fucking business?"

 _Yes it is_ , Dean wanted to yell, but that didn't seem like the right thing to say, especially because whoever Sam fucked really _shouldn't_ be any of Dean's business. It was – only in Dean's fucked-up head that it mattered so much.

"You still should've said," he insisted mulishly. Under the shock and heavy arousal still lingering he felt a big brotherly kind of indignant surprise that Sam had kept this from him. It seemed like a whole new sexual orientation, even if it was just occasional fooling around, shouldn't have been something Dean had missed.

Sam set his jaw and stepped forward, close, and if he got any further into Dean's space, Dean was going to – punch him. Or something.

Sam still looked angry, but also determined and intense, which never boded well. Another step, and he was right there, and Dean couldn't move.

"I think I know why you have such a problem with this, Dean," he said, and leaned in.

Dean bristled, on edge. "Sam–"

Sam reached down and rubbed the heel of his hand against Dean's cock through his jeans – Dean had been rock hard since he'd first seen Sam's mouth wrapped around Paul's dick.

He couldn't help the noise that escaped, and his hips gave a compulsive, needy little grind into that gorgeous pressure – before he brought his hands up and pushed Sam away. "No!" he exploded on a frantic rush of breath. "What are you – we – I don't–"

His hands were shaking, and he reached out again, to slam the heels of his hands into Sam's chest, to wind him, push him further away, so he could – get out, get away. "Don't fucking touch me!"

Sam's face was still blank with surprise and the physical shock of having to stumble to keep upright, nothing else in his expression that Dean could see, that could help him figure out what the _fuck_ he thought he was doing.

He turned, walked numbly back to their site, his heart hammering. His thoughts seemed to thicken into a fog, and he was aware of little inconsequential things like the slight coolness settling into the air now the sun had gone, the faint sounds of the crowds as the warm up shows carried on in the stadium, the scuff mark on the toe of his boot.

Bobby, Ellen and others were still sitting around talking, and they looked over at Dean as he walked straight into the garage and headed to his bike that he'd only put away an hour or so ago.

He turned to them, and grinned, resisting putting his hands up to his face to check he'd actually managed it. He felt almost drunk, skin numb and muscles unsure. "Just going out for a last ride around, clear my head, y'know."

Ellen frowned a little, but Bobby shrugged. "Careful with her," he said, and Dean nodded, got on without even a helmet and drove off, needing to be riding, needing to be away.

He didn't follow the path around to the practice ramps; he went to the entrance and took the road away from the team sites instead. His bike wasn't a roadbike, it wasn't built for speed and distance on tarmac, he didn't even have a road license for it, but he wasn't going to go far. He just needed to be going somewhere, letting air rush through his hair as the bike shoved him along, his mind settling into the small mental and motor tasks of riding.

The thin slip road from this side of the stadium wound around and headed towards the freeway, then alongside it for a way before joining a main road leading to an exit to join it. He wasn't going to go on the freeway, he just needed to get some distance.

He pulled the bike over when the freeway wasn't far ahead of him. This road was dark and silent, and the stadium was a hulking rise behind him, the freeway ahead blurring with red and white streaks of traffic, a turbulent river of light with its currents dragging inexorably against each other in and out of Miami. Real water gleamed somewhere beyond the freeway.  

He took a breath, a real deep one that felt like the first air he'd taken in since finding Sam behind that garage. He tilted his head back and realized for the first time that he wasn't wearing a helmet. Stupid. He looked up into the purplish blanket of full night that had fallen, orangey glare of the city glowing around its edges like embers.

He closed his eyes and saw Sam's face, the determination as he approached, the feel of him – the blank surprise as Dean had pushed him away. No disgust. No malice. What he'd said on the crash mat. Maybe he'd wanted Dean to see him this time too. _I think I know why you have such a problem with this_.

His heart was pounding in big, frantic beats that he could feel in his neck, in his head where he still had it dropped back to face up to the sky, at the thought of Sam wanting him right back, Sam leaning in to touch him and let Dean do things back to him, all these awful things he'd thought in the dark, because maybe, maybe–

It couldn't happen. Sam – maybe Sam had twisted himself into thinking he wanted it, or that he could be okay with it, or – or something, something that meant he wasn't about to run away in horror but it didn't mean they could actually have this. Sam had no idea. No fucking idea.

Shit like this couldn't happen. No matter how huge and urgent and _right_ it felt lodged in his chest, this growing stupid ball of want – no matter how it felt, no matter the giddy part of his brain that wanted to imagine if he'd let Sam keep touching him, imagine them actually doing something, maybe again and again – no, no matter what it felt like to Dean, it wasn't something that could happen. It was impossible and so, so wrong. Sam would figure that out, or maybe he knew it already, maybe he was just pushing and testing and trying because he was so damn _curious_ and stubborn.

Maybe they'd have to talk about it, or maybe Dean could put it off long enough for Sam to let go, but right now, less than twenty-four hours to go until they rode out in their most important competition to date, taking another step towards Azazel and the final, it was the last thing, the _last_ that should be clouding their minds.

He tipped his head forward carefully, heartbeat calming. It was amazing what you could disregard, with the right focus. Open the _Azazel_ box in his mind and the burst of all those nerves and determination and dislike rapidly crystallizing into hatred for everything Azazel and the Demons stood for – it flipped the lid back over closed on the messy bulging box marked _Sam_.

He drove carefully back into camp and even managed a genuine smile as he found Jo sitting crosslegged in the garage going over and over tightening her brakes. "Hey, kiddo," he said. She looked up at him, looking so young for a second, young and vulnerable, no matter she was one of the most stubborn people he knew, next to Sam, maybe, and the best female rider under twenty-one in at least this half of the country, probably all of it.

He felt a rush of affection for her, though it did strike him as a little ironic he felt so platonic towards her right now, like a sister, compared to how he felt about Sam – and he'd actually hooked up with Jo.

He sat down next to her, and took the wrench firmly from her. "Quit being a neurotic mess," he said, "and get some goddamn sleep," he said. She frowned at him, then her face shuddered like she might cry, then she sighed, shook her head and smiled.

"I feel like I'm going insane. You'd think this was my very first competition."

Dean shrugged. "We all go a little bit crazy. And it's probably the most important competition we've done so far. But you know what? We're going to rock it. We're going to rock it so dam _hard_ Florida's in danger of detaching from the mainland."

Jo laughed. "Oh my god, you're such a fucking dork."

"Yeah, but you feel better."

"Better that I'm not as lame as you."

"Come on, kiddo. Bed."

"You know," she mused, "that's kind of creepy."

Dean laughed, half-amused and half-uncomfortable at the echoing of his earlier thoughts. "Yeah, well," he said, and pulled her to her feet. "Seriously. Sleep. You're not dragging us down tomorrow."

She rolled her eyes. "Fuck you."

"You're welcome."

Dean stood outside his own trailer when Jo had gone into hers, then shook his head and pushed open the door.

Sam was there, but he was sleeping – or pretending, a dark lump on his bunk, huddled and turned away.

The box marked 'Sam' in Dean's mind thrashed, as if there was something alive in it, tendrils of crushing helpless love and hot, relentless want curling around his brain, before he packed them back away, holding onto the love for now – no way he could cut that part out in full anyway, for all the ways it wound into his brain – but putting away the rest.

He slept better than he thought he might, and woke up early, before Sam did, realizing there was something he really needed to do. He heard Sam stir as he put his shoes on and headed out, but he didn't look back.

He walked through their site and over towards Gordon's, which was stirring slowly into life as theirs was as the sun peered through the humid morning haze. He waved at Gordon as he saw him wandering out of a trailer with a cup of coffee. He didn't go over, though – he headed to where he could see Paul bent over a bike inside their garage, hands busy at the brake cables.

"Hey," he said, and a part of him found it kind of hilarious how the guy flinched away from him when he saw him. "Hey, no, I'm not here to take you down, chill. I'm – here to apologize, actually."

Paul straightened and crossed his arms across his chest warily. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean – I shouldn't have called you a fag." There wasn't really anyone in hearing distance but Dean dropped his voice on the word anyway in case Paul wasn't out or something – hey, Dean could be a nice guy. "It was totally out of line – I'm not homophobic at all, I don't give a shit actually, it was a douchebag thing to say. It's – it's my little brother, I get overprotective. Tripped that violent urge. I'm sorry. Imagine your little sister getting a face full of dick from some guy, you know?"

 _Not to mention the urge where I wish it was my dick he was getting instead_ , added his brain helpfully. He stamped out the voice ruthlessly.

"I don't have a sister," said Paul stonily, and Dean felt his reassuring smile falter for a second before Paul broke and grinned at him. "Just kidding. Yeah, I get it. You scared the shit out of me, but – yeah. Thanks for coming over here, man."

Dean shrugged. "No problem."

"So," said Paul, looking a bit shifty, "do you think I – Sam–"

"Nope," said Dean pleasantly. "Just because I apologized doesn't mean the violent urges have disappeared." Dean wasn't that much of a nice person.

"Oh. Sure," said Paul quickly, nodding, "no problem."

Dean nodded at him, and headed back to his site.

He saw Sam leaning against their trailer, holding two cups of coffee, which was a pretty clear invitation.

He walked up to Sam, making sure he didn't flinch or look away, and took the cup Sam offered. "Thanks," he said.

"Dean–"

"Sam. Look, I just." He took a breath. They needed to sort it out later. "I'm sorry about what I said, and for pushing you, but – look, it's the competition tonight, man. We need our head in that one hundred percent, _nothing_ else. So, after. Please?"

Sam nodded and Dean felt almost weak with relief. Their eye contact was awkward for a second, before Sam grinned and grabbed Dean's shoulder. "Ready to pummel the competition?" he said.

Dean smiled and relaxed next to Sam, imitating his position leaning against the trailer, looking out over their small site. "Always."

Sam look at him suddenly, frowning. "Hey. Were you coming over from P– from Gordon's site just now?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah. I apologized to Paul."

Sam's face wobbled in a comical mix of surprise and pleasure and disbelief. "You–"

Dean looked away, feeling weird but okay. "I didn't do it for you."

"Yeah, I know. Thank you, anyway."

\--

They didn't watch the first three teams perform – they'd already seen their shows in earlier heats, and anyway there was nothing worse than watching your competition and desperately trying to judge it against what you were going to do.

Well. Maybe waiting around unable to see but perfectly able to hear the music and fire and massive cheering of the excitable crowd was a little bit worse. Normally Dean would distract himself by talking to Sam, but conversation had been a little stilted between them all day – no fucking surprise, really, but it grated against Dean, worried him. It felt wrong whenever he wasn't totally in tune with Sam – and with fifteen of the most important minutes of their GFMX career looming, they couldn't afford to be anything but seamlessly in sync.

Sam was crouched next to his bike, rubbing a cloth over the dark blue streak across his wheel guard – all their performance bikes, Kawasaki KXFs, had the same basic style, the small light panels around the engine and the high arched front wheel guard in one color, with a simple jagged streak pattern of that color but darker slashed through. Sam had azure/midnight blue, Dean lime/forest green, both – like the rest of the team – with a silver W on the right front side panel over the engine. Sam had his leathers folded down past his waist, his white wifebeater on underneath, the sleeves trailing in the dust. They all wore full body suits, black leather with accents in the bright and darker colors of their bikes. They were practical as well as showy, the leather flexible enough for free range of movement, thickly protective with pads worked in at elbows and knees, but still tight enough for the girls to get appreciative whistles and for Dean – well, for Dean to curse at how long Sam's legs were, leading down from his narrow waist, leather molded to fit all the way, before disappearing into the high sturdy boots.

Dean went over and, half on autopilot, picked up Sam's sleeves from the ground and tutted at him. "We ain't going to win if you're all dusty, you scruff," he said, then tensed as he realized how close he was and how casual he'd been; but Sam twisted around to look at him and grinned.

"Quit mothering me," he said, but kept on smiling, and stood up, dropping the polishing cloth on the bike's seat and taking the sleeves of his leathers from Dean. "Help me get this on, then," he said, and pushed his arms into the holes as Dean held them up, then turned and let Dean zip it up, pulling it snug across his wide shoulders, fastening it with the buckle to keep it secure at the top. Jesus, Sam looked so fucking huge in this. Just miles of thick, touchable leather across him; Dean laid a hand on Sam's shoulder for a second, couldn't help it, felt Sam's warmth start to bleed into the leather, and swallowed hard, then disguised it with a slap.

"Done," he said, and kept his eyes at Sam's face as he turned around.

Sam stayed close, watching him intently, slight frown line between his brows. The crowd gave a particularly loud cheer as Gordon's Vamps neared the end of their show – and therefore the start of the Hunters' – and Sam swayed a little closer.

Everyone else was busy fixing their costumes and checking over their bikes, or staring blankly towards where they'd ride out, preparing themselves, so no-one noticed Sam and Dean's moment, standing close together. "Hey," said Sam softly, and for all he was close and looking right at Dean, Dean didn't feel panicked or even that awful tug of guilt and want; he just felt good, having his brother close to him. Sam touched his fingers between Dean's forehead and his own, saying, "We're good, right? We're – ready?"

Dean let out a breath, and his shoulders dropped and he felt better than he had all day. Right now he and Sam were just – brothers, who rode like they were one soul in two bodies, ready to do it and take everyone's breath away and win this. Whatever it was that had been a little off all day aligned into place with a soft sigh in his mind, and he grinned at Sam, not worrying about everything else crammed into that mental box, because _this_ was what they were about, right now.

"Yeah. Never been readier. Ready to have me show you up?"

Sam relaxed all over, too, tense lines of his body easing as he laughed. "Oh, you so wish. You'll be eating my dust." Which was crap; they both knew they'd be in time to the split second for the whole show.

The noise from the stadium increased as Gordon's Vamps rode out the climax of their show to the popping crackle of pyrotechnics and the roaring of the crowd; the klaxon signaling the end of each team's allotted fifteen minutes blared out, and the performers screeched out of the exit, veering around to their own small prep area clustered around the 'backstage' area.

Bobby stood up sharply, and like it was a signal, all the performers put down anything they'd been holding, grabbed their helmets and goggles, and flung a leg over their bikes, starting to walk them into their starting position – two parallel lines of three riders, Sam and Dean at the front of each line. They had ten minutes while the pyrotechnics reset and the judges finished writing their notes on the previous performers.

"Ready?" Bobby said simply.

Dean's heart thudded in his chest, but – like always – the nerves had finally exploded through into sheer giddy excitement, the thrill rushing through every inch of his body. He exchanged a wild reckless grin with Sam.

"Fuck, yes!" everyone said, and Bobby wordlessly gestured for everyone to get their gloves and helmets and finally goggles on.

Sitting on his bike with the noise around him, the particular smell of the backstage prep area, the feel of his costume leathers – putting on his helmet was the final sensory signal to his body that flipped him over into full, alert awareness of _fuck, yes, let's do this_. He wasn't nervous, he couldn't even think of anything else; he was ready to ride. He looked over at Sam – it was hard to see his eyes in the space in the bulky colorful helmet, even before Sam had got the goggles on, but it didn't matter; he felt connected to Sam, here at the front of the team ready to go out there together and ride like mirrored images of each other, in a way that went beyond eye contact.

Bobby nodded, stepped aside, and the team waited, facing the entrance to the stadium, waiting for the cue from the attendant nearby but it was obvious from the booming announcer over the speakers when they needed to come in. The crowd was cheering loud enough they nearly drowned out the announcer, but not enough to cover the low building sinuous beat of _Hells' Bells_ pumping out of the speakers. Dean counted down the beats, lifted his leg onto the starter pedal as everyone else did, and on cue, the starter klaxon screamed out. Dean jolted into action, stamped on the starter; the roar of all six bikes starting up filled his ears for a moment, and they sped in perfect formation towards the entrance and out into the crazy spotlight intensity of the stadium.

\--

They rode out into the arena in the same two-line formation, kept it smooth and together even as the noise of the crowd burst over them. It wasn't a big crowd pleaser, formation riding, but it was a lot more difficult than it looked – keeping your bike in position, exactly parallel to your opposite rider, exactly in place in front of and behind the other riders in your line; plus it was a trick ticked off the score box.

The two lines split apart and circled the arena, met again in the flat space in the middle and intertwined in complex figure-eights and sharp loops, banking in hard turns to the beats of the music.

They split up the formation suddenly and scattered to the corners of the arena starting the first wave of jumps, three riders up and down each set of ramps lining either side, timed so the air seemed constantly alive with riders and tricks – they started off with simple tricks to warm up the crowd and tick off the boxes, kicks to the side, back and front, body twists and one armed, no-armed landings; they smoothly worked in harder tricks and combinations and subtly put in more power to get the leaps higher. They slid into their choreographed pairs jumps after that, two riders going around all the ramps doing tricks in tandem, again working up the difficulty level until each pair did a full back flip after half the ramps were done, then a backflip/seat grab combo that made the crowd cheer, then a tricky horizontal 360-degree spin in the air.

Sam and Dean were the last of the pairs, going just that bit higher in their leaps than all the others, and Dean was grinning wildly under his helmet as they approached the last ramp for the 360. It was an almost impossible trick to do in tandem, but he knew Sam and Sam knew him. He trusted his bike and looked to the side at Sam instead of ahead at the ramp, let himself take in the positioning of Sam's body, and could feel Sam's attention on him, too. They shifted their weight at the same time, moved their arms, and as their bikes left the lip of the ramp, they moved as one person, smoothly pulling their bikes around into the spin. The world blurred around Dean, and he was lost for a second in the disorienting flash the world always sped into for a moment in these spins, lost in a rush of movement. He was loose, lost, not sure where the ground was, the sky was, the stadium, the ramp; everything was a vibrant mess for the thrilling split second until visual cues reasserted themselves, connected again with the sensation of the air and his bike's weight, and he knew exactly where he was, and that was going to land the bike dead on; but through it all, he never lost the knowledge of where _Sam_ was in relation to him.

Their wheels powered down into the dirt precisely in time, and the cheers swelled.

No time to be too pleased, though, because they had to speed down to the set-up at the far end of the arena, where they had their first and largest element of sheer teamwork precision – four ramps were set up, each a curved jump ramp adjacent to a dirt landing ramp, arranged in a square around a pit in the middle. Three riders went up a jump ramp into a smooth backflip, three ramps of the four used at the same time, all the riders occupying the same space above the pit, timed perfectly so no-one crashed into each other, all three intertwining and avoiding each other's trajectories and landing on the opposite landing ramps as the next three riders came up the jump ramps. It was so familiar and smoothly practiced in training that Dean had almost forgotten the danger involved, but doing it here, now, with a crowd watching, Dean's heart thudded in his chest hard, watching his team roar toward each other at such speed, flash by each other with what looked like inches to spare; doing it himself, he saw the blurs of blue and crimson as Sam and Tamara flipped with him.

They all landed it exactly as they should, Dean punching a fist into the air pleased and proud, and they went into the second wave of tricks as the music picked up, this time impressive individual jumps with each rider showing off their specialty moves. Dean let go of his bike with arms and legs entirely for a giddy moment in the air, skillfully grabbing back on to the center of the handlebars and swinging his legs either side of the bike in a pendulum two, three times, before kicking out backwards then landing it smoothly. He tugged the bike around in a sharp turn and caught sight of Sam doing his backflip combined with body-pop, holding onto the handlebars whilst hooking his feet under them and arching his body out and away; he was outlined by a flash of a camera for a moment, a graceful silhouette of the black arch of his body curving sharply away from the bike whilst upside down.

They finished up their specialties, did a few tandem skilled trick combinations in varying pairs jumps, making sure each rider did a trick with each other rider in the team, and they kept up a breathless pace, barely a second without a rider in the air. The music flipped over into Metallica and exactly on cue, timing sharper so far even than their best practice, they all swerved back into the middle, wheels raised to do a imitation of their earlier formation riding but all balanced back on the rear wheel, still perfectly in place, time, and to the beat.

Dean peeled away from the left of the group as Sam did from the right and they curved in symmetry around the edge of the arena back to the ramps facing around the pit. Dean was going too fast, racing as quickly as his heartbeat was pounding with elation, but it was fine because he knew he was going exactly as fast as Sam was going, too. They didn't even need to signal to each other – they got to the ramps too early and in total unconscious agreement did a one-wheeled circle around the ramps, passing within inches of each other, to make up to the cue in the music, before readying themselves for their favorite part of the show.

The guitars screeched and the drums built up in a low rumbly bridge of anticipation, and fireworks crackled around them, a crowd-priming row of sparkles along the sides of the arena.

Dean clenched on the accelerator and felt the rumble of the engine shudder all the way up into his chest, fill him with energy like oxygen, and he whooped, unheard into his helmet. He rode fast up the ramp, everything in him ready for this, and of course Sam was right where he should be, leaving the lip of the ramp directly opposite Dean's at the same time Dean left his.

They headed in a trajectory that had the crowd gasping, because it looked surely as though they should crash into each other; they curved their bikes around into an elegant backflip, and Dean used his instinct, skill and knowledge of himself, his bike, and Sam's body and Sam's bike and timing, to fall into place. It was the prefect precision of time and space, position, elevation and rotation, that let them slide by each other, ending up both upside down in mirrored positions exactly next to each other, exactly upside down – and exactly in the middle of the metal ring that had risen up before they'd hit the ramps.

If Ellen was on the ball with the controls–

 _Yes_. The ring exploded into flame around them in the same moment they passed through it together at the peak of their flips, with a _whompf_ of fire that Dean felt in his chest a second before the flush of heat followed him as he completed the flip and landed on the dirt. He didn't even bother to look back and check Sam landed safely; he knew he did, could tell in the deep instinctual part of him where his connection with Sam stirred. And above that, there was something about the show so far – it was the kind of night where nothing was going to go wrong.

The audience was making all kinds of noise, but the show wasn't over yet – - the rest of the team were popping up a set of ramps down the other end of the arena doing speed flips, seat-grabs and horizontal rotations after each other fast enough to blur, smears of color spinning through the brightly lit air of the arena. Sam and Dean joined them smoothly, got in a flip and a rotation each, then the whole team swerved back into the middle, looped around each other and slotted back into the two parallel lines that gradually spread out into six abreast as they rode down to the wide communal ramp down at one end. The pit underneath the ramp burst into a great growl of fire just before their wheels touched the first up slope of the ramp, and fireworks burst in big colorful falls of light either side as they jumped, fast through the flickering very tips of the flames, and all six came up off their seats, let go of the handlebars, grabbed onto the seat and kicked their legs out and up almost in a handstand in a carefully controlled _superman_ trick over the fire, swinging easily back into their seats as they landed to explosive applause and the climactic burst of the music. They roared out wildly as the klaxon screamed across the stadium, drowning out everything else for one triumphant moment as they exited.

\--

There was a bizarre, charged moment of silence as they roared back into the prep area, filling the space with movement but not the standard chatter; the crowd's screams still shaking through the air. They took their helmets off, still astride their bikes, and looked around at each other, as if remembering they were all separate people, not some single awesome entity. Then Sam tried a grin and said, "Was it just me, or was that the new best show we've ever put on?"

It broke the stillness and everyone started talking over each other, laughing and shouting; Corbett was saying blankly to Victor then to anyone who'd listen, "What the fuck, I've never gotten that high off a ramp, ever, I swear," Tamara and Jo were telling each other over and over, "We've won, right? We won. We had to. No way not, right?"

Sam just looked at Dean with a big helpless grin. Lingering cordite from their climactic fire bursts and fireworks hung in the air, then Bobby was walking right into the middle causing chaos as everyone tried to get off their bikes at once and slap him on the shoulder or ask if he saw that bit, and that bit, and that, where–

Sam was still looking at Dean, but it felt good, like they were sharing in this, like they'd done so well riding together that they had to watch each other's faces as they relived it.

The announcer was rambling on, now, patter to keep the crowd entertained, showing highlights of the shows on the big screens at either end, as the judges finished up their notes on Winchester's Hunters and started collating everything together for the score presentation; the team kept on talking, excited high energy conversation that got louder and louder until the moment when they had to make their way over to hear the results, apprehension cutting through the chatter like a knife. "We've won it, right?" said Jo into the sudden silence and Dean snorted.

"Way to jinx it," he said, but he kind of agreed with her.

The whole team had to go to a pen inside the stadium, alongside the other teams, their faces blown up to huge size on the screens, but no-one was looking at those screens – they were looking at the hanging black scoreboard where sponsor messages still scrolled across.

Each performance was judged out of twenty-five in four main categories – technical content, overall presentation, skill level, and teamwork. The final score out of 100 was then topped up by another one-to-five points depending on their previous rankings so far within the competition. The sponsor's messages disappeared from the scoreboard, and then a table of six columns and four lines appeared, ready for each team's name, category scores and final scores. The scores rolled out in agonizing long seconds in order of each team's appearance, and each team groaned in slight disappointment if the next score beat their previous. Gordon's Vamps, showing up third, jumped up to first place with the scores up a huge margin compared to the previous two teams.

There was a moment of quiet when Winchester's Hunters' scores rolled out, then the crowd started cheering before the team could even properly register it. 98.5 out of 105 – a team personal best and, Dean was pretty sure, not far off a world record for a GFMX show score.

Later, when Dean remembered back to this part of the night, it was lost to flashes – Sam next to him, face alight, arms strong around him – the pop of champagne – the incoherent answers they gave to the sports media as they descended – Gordon slapping him on the back and wishing him luck against the Demons – watching their show rerun on the huge screens and unable to reconcile what he saw up there with how it felt to do it.

When they finally were allowed to leave the stadium, they flooded back to their site to celebrate, but Sam's big hand on his shoulder – it seemed like he'd been touching Dean all night – dragged him away. Dean went happy, pliable, giving grins and taking high fives of congratulations from the rest of the teams as they walked past the other sites. There were people everywhere, but Sam somehow managed to find somewhere secluded and deserted, even if they could still hear the presence of people not all that far off.

Dean blinked and looked around, belatedly realizing Sam had brought him to the empty site, hidden behind the garage building, to where Sam and Paul –

He looked up at Sam, who was close, smiling, hand still on Dean's shoulder. "Sam?" Dean's heartbeat picked up as the daze from the show faded away and he remembered everything from before.

Sam walked him backwards, slowly, until Dean stopped at the press of the concrete garage wall at his back. "It's after," said Sam, and he was so close.

 _This isn't what I meant_ , thought Dean blankly, then Sam was leaning in, pressing Dean against the wall with his hands flat on Dean's shoulders, and Dean – could smell Sam, the leather and sweat of him, the scent of his hair as Sam moved right in, his nose touching Dean's in a heartstopping brush, before–

Sam's lips were soft, and for a moment Dean let it happen.

Then he shuddered into motion and pushed at Sam, broke the kiss – _kiss_ – but didn't push Sam away, just gripped his hands in the collar of Sam's suit. "What–" he said, breathlessly, his thoughts flying around like startled birds, he couldn't catch one to start with.

Sam set his jaw and determination stole into his eyes, and Dean had to stop this.

"No," he said quickly, "I didn't – I didn't meant _this_ , after! I meant – we should – talk about it."

It seemed stupid now – talk, talk about what, this shouldn't even be happening, but Sam was throwing all his plans and expectations out of the window by being here and close, and _Dean_ having to be the one pushing him away.

"Why?" said Sam, eyes softening, and he started smiling a little again. "What's to talk about?"

"What's to–! Sam, this is – we can't." _We can't_ sounded wrong, like there was even a chance they could.

Sam just shrugged, a nonchalant easy movement. "Why not? I – Dean, I know you want this. I know you're tying yourself up in knots about it, and I know it's a little fucked up, but it doesn't have to matter." He was so earnest and near, and his skin looked so soft this close, and Dean wanted to touch, run his fingers over Sam's lips and touch that mole on his chin and kiss him all over.

 _It does matter_ , Dean thought, but he couldn't seem to figure out exactly why. "We're brothers," he said at last. "I've – looked out for you my whole life. I can't–"

Sam grinned. "Take advantage of me?" He looked pointedly down at where they were pressed close, Sam crowding Dean against a wall. Dean hadn't even noticed how their legs had slotted together, Sam's long thigh between his; if Sam just – pushed up – Dean swallowed against a hot shudder. "You're so used to denying yourself things you want, you've gone without stuff for me, you've put me first so long that you don't even realize you're doing it. You can't look back and _see_ the opportunities you gave up because I was there to look after, the times you made sure I had new clothes and shoes and books out of our allowance before you looked for yourself. The time you didn't ride in your second ever show because I had a stomachache. The time you didn't go out on a date because I wanted you to teach me the new trick you'd learned – it's second nature to you to sacrifice things you want, but this time you don't have to."

It should have made it worse, Sam reminding Dean of their past, all the ways they were brothers, but it calmed him to remember that this was just Sam, here. He knew this boy.

Sam tilted his head in, and this time Dean didn't flinch when their noses brushed. "'Cause I want this, I want you, and you want it too, and that makes it easy. We've never cared what anyone thought except for each other."

Dean closed his eyes, because Sam saying _I want you_ was something he didn't know how to deal with; it wasn't something he'd expected, since that first realization of how Dean himself felt. Sam saying that – it did awful, wonderful things to him. Sam always knew what he wanted and went for it, and if it was Dean – if it was really Dean he wanted, and Dean wanted it too – it was as though Sam's soft, sure voice was sneaking in and flipping all the locks on his restraint, easily getting rid of his piled up constructed defenses and reasonings, and all was left was the rushing surging current of need. Maybe it could be – that easy.

The current surged, a wave roaring up the beach, and snapped its ropes.

"You'd better be sure," he said, opening his eyes, and Sam grinned and then sobered, face so close to Dean's now he couldn't see all of his expression, but his eyes were enough. "I always am," said Sam, and that was true enough.

"God," said Dean, and dropped his head back against the wall, and Sam _moved_ – his fingers dug into Dean's shoulders and pushed him hard against the wall, head dropping down to open his mouth against Dean's throat. He pressed up hard all against Dean, the whole firm length of his body, and Dean arched into it. One of Sam's hands slid up his neck to grip at Dean's short hair, and Dean went eagerly with the pull until they were kissing – again – _properly_ , long urgent rhythmic pulses of it, mouths open wide and wet against each other. Sam's tongue slid filthy and eager into Dean's mouth, sliding against his teeth, the roof of his mouth.

Dean groaned in his throat, his pulse thrumming hard in his neck, pounding in his urgently hard cock – the victorious adrenaline rush from the show was still alight in his body, and having Sam touch him, god, Sam who he fucking wanted so bad, it was like he was being set aflame. Sam shoved up with that leg between Dean's and Dean ground his hips down into it instinctively and wantonly, rubbing off against Sam's long, firm thigh, but there were two layers of leather there muffling the contact and he needed more.

He pulled his mouth away from Sam's, sucking two or three wet kisses to Sam's bottom lip as he did. "Oh, fuck," he gasped, "I need more, something."

"What do you want?" panted Sam.

"Anything," moaned out Dean. "It's fucking insane, how – how much I want you."

"Oh, you have no fucking idea," groaned Sam, and scrabbled his hands behind Dean's neck urgently, finding the buckle and zipper and peeling the suit down to the waist and tugging off the thin undershirt to get to Dean's skin. He was slightly damp and sticky with sweat, but Sam mouthed his way down Dean's chest making little noises of pleasure, and when Sam dropped to his knees Dean's whole body seized up with a shudder.

"Are you gonna–"

"Can't think about anything else," said Sam, "god, been thinking about this so fucking long," his voice unsteady, and he tugged at the suit until he could get it out of the way below Dean's ass and cock.

The relief of the pressure of the leather on Dean's dick was gorgeous; they all wore pretty tight briefs under their suits, not like you could wear boxers under leathers like that and have anything not supported during a show – and Dean looked down, could see how his cock was shoving up out of his black briefs, wet red head coming up out of the waistband, and Sam was staring, his hands braced maddeningly on Dean's hips, thumbs nearly touching Dean's balls through the briefs.

"C'mon," he moaned, then Sam leaned forward and pressed his face against Dean, mouthed at him through the briefs and breathed in deep, eyes falling closed, like Dean's dick smelled like the best thing he'd ever fucking known.

"Oh, fuck," said Sam, and the slight vibration made Dean's dick leap violently against Sam's cheek. Sam moved his hands and finally yanked Dean's briefs down to sit under his balls, and opened his mouth eagerly around Dean's cock, went down in a hot wet suck that made Dean's hands curl into desperate fists.

"Oh shit," he said, dropping his head back to lean against the wall, eyes clenched shut with the sheer fucking mindblowing goodness of it, Sam's mouth working at his stiff cock. "Oh shit, oh fuck, you – you fucking love this, don't you? Oh, god," he moaned, Sam's tongue sliding soft pressure against the underside as he went down again, then sucked hard up to tease his tongue around the head.

Dean dropped his chin back to his chest to watch, because Sam was fucking gorgeous like this, really going for it, head moving up and down, mouth a wet red shine around Dean's dick. Sam had his eyes shut, a look of sheer bliss on his face that Dean remembered from – it was an insane kind of turn on to realize how much his brother enjoyed sucking cock, though Dean didn't want to think about Paul right now.

Sam was making little sounds like he couldn't help himself, one hand steadying himself around the base of Dean's cock and the other dropped to his thigh, fingers flexing around the ridge of his own dick under the leather. Then Sam's eyes flashed open and he was looking right up at Dean, and he looked like he would have grinned if he hadn't had a mouth full of cock. He took his hand away from Dean's dick and the other away from his own, placed both back on Dean's hips, and them screwed himself all the way down, deep, his nose pressing this sharp little point into Dean's belly, as Dean's dick slipped right into his throat.

Dean shoved a fist into his mouth and bit down, because – fuck – if he could hear the faint sounds of people from the other sites, then someone would hear him if he screamed.

He came in wrenching, incredible pulls, Sam staying down for the first few then coming up coughing as Dean finished, come running white over his lips.

"Oh shit," said Dean, when he could take his hand away, dark crescent imprint of his teeth over his knuckles, "Oh shit, sorry–"

Sam grinned, looking fucking wanton with come still dripping over his lips, and he wiped his mouth. "God," he said, "no, that – god, that was so fucking hot, do you know how often I've thought about that?"

It was insane, and so so good in some hot dark possessive part of Dean's mind, that Sam had been thinking about this, maybe jerking off to it, for – god knows how long, thinking about sucking Dean off.

Sam started to stand up, and Dean wrapped a hand around his arm and hauled him up and in close, kissing him hard. He could feel the thickness of his own come in Sam's mouth, the bitter taste of it, and it should have been gross but everything seemed so damn hot, debauched and needy, he and Sam all sweaty and desperate together.

He moved his hands to start undoing Sam's leather. "You're way too dressed," he muttered into the kiss, and Sam laughed, reached back to help with the buckle because Dean felt like all the strength had gone from him after that orgasm. They got it undone, peeled it all the way down like Dean's was, the suits hanging heavy against their legs but neither of them wanted to stop long enough to get their boots off and pull the snug leather off their legs.

Sam's briefs were white, a contrast against his golden-brown skin, and his cock stretched them out obscenely, gone damp and see-through where his swollen cockhead pushed out. It was big and right there and real in some incredible, immediate way that flashed hot in Dean's mind. Arousal jumped and squirmed low in his belly, as if he was getting hard, except he was still tingling from his orgasm, it would take a few minutes yet.

He reached out to touch, felt the searing heat of it against his fingertips before Sam made a rough low noise and arched into Dean, shoving his cock against Dean's hand roughly until he pulled the briefs down and took Sam's dick properly in his hand, the thick heat of it in his palm, damp and smooth and so fucking hard.

Sam crowded in close, pushed Dean hard against the wall again, and Dean jerked his cock a few times, watching in hot fascination as it twitched in his hand. "What do you want?" he asked.

Sam pressed his head down into Dean's shoulder. "Ungh," he managed, breath panting hotly over Dean's skin.

"Sam," said Dean, "c'mon – anything–"

"Oh god, Dean, I wanna fuck you."

It wasn't a surprising answer, but it slammed into Dean; something like fear and something like anticipation washed through him, making him feel dizzy for a moment. "Jesus christ," he gritted out. His hand stilled its slow firm movement on Sam's cock.

"I can – if you've never, then I've done it to myself and I like it–" – and Dean really needed to pack away that mental image to take out later, holy shit – "so we can do it that way, but – fuck, Dean, I want–"

Dean interrupted him, hardly realizing he had been about to speak. "I want you to."

His heart was beating fast in his chest against, thick hard beats that had been slowing down after his orgasm now picking up again, but he did want it. Deep in some aching, unknown way, he wanted Sam to fuck him, slam him up against this wall and take him. He hadn't really done anything like this before but he trusted Sam more than he'd trust anyone else on Earth and he knew with a spark of anticipation it was gonna be good. That Sam would make it good.

Sam put his hand on Dean's face, his wide palm against Dean's cheek, his thumb brushing just over Dean's mouth, looking at Dean intently. "Yeah?"

Dean grinned, the fear washing away. "What, you want an engraved invitation?"

Sam rolled his eyes in such a _Sam_ way Dean had to laugh, and Sam kissed it right from his mouth, pressing his tongue in wet and needy, sliding along Dean's so pornographically Dean had to clutch with one hand at Sam, grabbing at his shoulder then sliding in to grab a handful of hair – and fuck, he was getting hard again, his cock shifting and rising. He started moving his other hand on Sam's dick again, feeling it twitch, and Sam groaned into his mouth, then kissed down to his neck, making pleasurable goosebumps prickle along Dean's skin, across his shoulders.

"Fuck me if you're gonna," he said breathlessly, then gasped as Sam moved quickly, turning Dean around and pushing him against the wall so quickly Dean had to brace himself with his hands. "Bitch," he said, laughing, then, "Oh, fuck, Sam," as he sensed Sam sinking to his knees behind him. Dean rocked forward to lean against the wall with his elbows, the wall rough and hard along his forearms but nothing, nothing mattered except the sensation of Sam's hands on his ass.

He was abruptly aware that they were outside, the sky open above them, and it was dark, now, this place lit only by nearby floodlights over the front of the site, but anyone who wandered by would see – oh, god, would see as Sam spread Dean's ass cheeks slightly. He felt – exposed and weirdly vulnerable, but his cock was pulsing fully hard now and he wouldn't have stopped for anything.

"Gonna get you good and wet," Sam said behind him, and Dean shuddered and clenched, half at the words and half at the feel of Sam's breath whispering over the sensitive skin there, right over his asshole, and was Sam really gonna–

Dean choked out some embarrassing, ragged moan, and he moved forward and leaned his head on his arm, trying to muffle his mouth again, because Sam was – his tongue was slicking over and over Dean's asshole, wet hot slide right there, shamelessly eager in the way his mouth worked, and Dean found himself fucking _praying_ up thanks for his brother's oral fixation and wicked tongue.

Sam slid a finger in past his tongue, and it slid in easily enough with the wetness of Sam's spit but it felt – odd, new, alien; but Dean was never one to be squeamish and there was the underlying feeling of satisfaction under the weirdness of it, a primal sort of pleasure at being filled. And this was just one finger.

Sam slid in another finger, and it still didn't really hurt – his tongue was slipping around deliciously in between his fingers, wet flashes of sensation that made Dean groan, and his body was feeling too good all over to tense up; he bore down on the fingers in an instinctual way and they slid further in; it wasn't until Sam started working his third finger in as well that Dean started to feel the weird burning stretch, and had to resist the urge to clamp down and force them all out. He did resist, though, because that other urge, that dark ache, was growing stronger. Sam's fingers were long but not long enough, and he craved the solid length of Sam's dick sliding up inside him, fucking craved it.

"Oh god, do it, Sam, please, I want it, I really fucking want it–"

He heard Sam swore, felt as he sucked a wet kiss to Dean's ass then licked around where his fingers went inside, got it all liberally wet, then pulled them out, and stood and kissed the back of Dean's neck. "No lube," he said, "but I got you pretty wet–"

"I don't fucking care about lube," said Dean, feeling desperate – he felt open and strange without Sam's fingers, and the ache inside him was growing to a roar – he _wanted_. "Just do it, c'mon, fucking get in there, fuck me!"

"Christ, don't beg like that, you'll have me going off before I can get in," said Sam.

"Don't you fucking dare–" growled Dean and Sam laughed.

"Wouldn't dare. Oh, jesus–" His cock was slipping up between Dean's ass cheeks, and it was big, fuck, it was, and for a moment it seemed impossible as Sam got his hand down there and pushed it against Dean's asshole. He could feel that he was open from the fingers and the rimming, and Sam's cock was slippery at the head from the slick precome he'd been leaking for a while, but – there was still a big stretch to go–

Sam pushed in, relentless; it hurt, no use thinking it didn't, it was a burning unnatural-feeling stretch, and it was a rougher drag that it probably would have been with proper lube – but it was going, going in slow inch by inch; and pain wasn't ever something that had scared Dean before. He'd broken bones, dislocated his shoulder, bruised and burned and wrenched himself–

And none of those pains had that payback of the wonderful, sliding sensation of being filled up, the deep down satisfaction of it, the ache that somehow grew and changed as Sam slid all the way in. His heartbeat was thudding deep and strong in his chest, and he'd almost forgotten about his fat, heavy cock hanging between his legs, everything in his body centered on the push of Sam inside him; when Sam bottomed out, his chest warm and damp with sweat against Dean's back, and slid a hand around Dean's hip to grip his cock, it felt like sparks raced through him – both Sam's hand on his dick and the length of Sam shoved up inside him felt better for the other, a feedback loop of viciously good pleasure.

Sam was thrusting in little helpless motions, and something in Dean wanted Sam to move _properly_ – to fuck Dean, to really do it. He took one hand off the wall and reached behind to grab Sam's hip and drag him in hard. "Fuck – do it," he said, and Sam groaned.

Dean had to brace his arm back on the wall quickly as Sam thrust in – properly – hard, and turned his face into his bicep again to muffle himself because each time Sam shoved in, a deep wracking moan was forced out of Dean. It felt like nothing else, like he didn't know sex could feel – destroyingly good, intense and insane, and it was Sam, god, Sam screwing him open against a wall half in their leathers. It was amazing, and also awful in a way he could hardly grasp, because he wasn't ever going to be able to give this up, go back to anything less. To anyone else.

The pain had gone, now, the pressure and stretch had become a part of it all, and Dean clenched down hard now, not to try and force Sam out but to feel, to really feel the size of him inside, to feel how it sent hot shudders running through him, the roaring ache getting fucked into satisfaction.

Sam made a choked off whimpering noise in his throat, a desperate lovely sound, and his hips slammed into Dean harder, fucking him violently; Sam's hand tightened around Dean's dick and his thumb slid firm over the head, over the wet slit. Dean came like a cresting wave, a white, roaring foaming crash, feeling the force of it in his arms and legs and fingers, a white-out of pleasure.

Sam was panting, and Dean heard him manage Dean's name before opening his mouth over Dean's shoulder and shouting into it, biting down in an attempt to keep quiet as he came. He was coming inside Dean, no condom, and Dean imagined he could almost feel it, hot spurts up inside him, sliding around Sam's cock as he rolled his hips in a few last thrusts.

Dean was slumped forward against the wall, breathing in great gulps of air, feeling the evening air move over his shoulders – it was warm, of course, it was Miami, but not as hot as the daytime and the movement of the breeze across his sweat-damp skin was enough for a slight bite of coolness on his heated body. It was nice.

Sam shifted, pulled out, and it hurt again a bit and felt frankly bizarre, quickly followed by unpleasant as come started to leak down out of Dean's asshole and wetly down his thighs, but Dean didn't really give a shit considering how hard he'd just come. Twice. He let go of the wall, tugged his suit up just enough to cover his ass, tried not to think about how he was getting Sam's come on it, and sat down abruptly as his legs felt like they were made of wet sand. He leaned back against the wall and realized he was shaking, trembling very slightly in his fingers – and he never shook, it didn't matter how nervous he was before a show. He'd just been fucked to hell and back by his little brother, though, so he figured he'd allow himself a little trembling. "Fuck," he said.

He couldn't seem to settle his thoughts – the facts were all there: Sam was his brother, he wanted Sam, Sam wanted him, and they'd just _fucked_ – but they were slippery, wouldn't lie together in way he could see them all at once. "Fuck," he said, again.

Sam tugged his own suit up and sat on the floor right next to Dean, a hand on his shoulder. "You – was that, um. Okay?"

Dean wasn't entirely sure, but Sam's hand was moving slightly on his bare shoulder, almost unconscious little movements, and it made Dean feel like he was a spooked horse or something but it did actually help. It grounded him, and feeling Sam's hand on him and looking at his familiar face helped remind him that, yeah, this was fucked up because it was his brother, but it was also _Sam_ , and he couldn't see anything involving Sam as bad. He felt good, and Sam looked happy, really happy in the soft set of his mouth and warm half-lidded eyes, and that was all that could really be important.

"Yeah," he said. "I mean, this is weird, right? But I think it's okay." Dean let out a breath and tipped his head back against the wall. "Fuck, I'm exhausted."

Sam laughed, sounding smug, and Dean opened his eyes again to glare at him. "Not just 'cause of you. There was all the – you know, the performance and the winning and all that."

Sam shrugged. "Just admit I tired you out."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, you just wait. Gimme a good night's sleep, and I'll–"

"Yeah?" said Sam, eyes suddenly more intent, bright with desire that was so new and thrilling to see there.

Dean smirked. "You'll just have to see."


	4. Chapter 4

  


  


\--

They drove back to the South Carolina training camp the next morning, the whole team in high spirits and Bobby telling everyone to calm the fuck down because winning the semis wouldn't mean shit if they didn't win the final; just over a week away in Philadelphia. Sam and Dean joined in with the discussions and rehashing of the show and talking about the final and everything that everyone was talking nonstop about, but it was clear from the look in Sam's eyes and the slight lag he had in answering people that he was feeling the same way Dean was – slightly distanced from the whole thing. Like he had to struggle to remember that to everyone else, the most important thing that had happened in Miami was winning the semi; not the mindblowing sex he'd had with his brother behind an empty garage. The satisfaction of the win was still bright and fierce, but it felt like something that had happened weeks ago. It was sometimes hard to focus, and Dean was glad when people started to crash from the intensity of the past couple of days, and chill out as they wound further north.

Sam and Dean had spent most of the rest of the day sitting by the window and playing card games and not saying much of anything but catching each other's eyes often enough that it wasn't an awkward silence. It was as if they both needed some time to readjust in all the ways things were a bit different and all the ways they could be the same. Some of the others in their bus would wander by, join in a game or two, and Dean kept thinking, _what would you say if you knew_?

That night, lying in the narrow bunks as the bus drove on steady through the night, Dean stared up into the dimness, the bus' ceiling only a foot and a half away from his face. His body seemed to be buzzing with this crazy awareness of Sam in the bunk below him, so close; just over twenty-four hours ago they'd fucked, he'd had his little brother's dick inside him and he'd come from it, hard. Felt Sam come inside him. It was insane.

He wanted it again, but he didn't know how they were going to work that – their life wasn't the best for privacy, the team was all thrown together for so much of the year, they couldn't _hide_ something this crazy but they couldn't ever let anyone find out, it wasn't–

Sam kicked the underside of his bed. "Quit thinking," he whispered. "That's meant to be my domain, the way you go on and call me geekboy all the time."

Dean flopped over onto his front and dropped his head down over the edge to look at Sam, thinking back suddenly to the journey down, before – before. "Yeah," he said. "But it's – you know. Been a crazy couple of days." He was aware that the other people on the bus might be asleep but might also be able to hear them.

Sam hmmed. "Yeah. But – it's all been good, right? Just – let it be good."

"It has. I mean, yeah. Really good. But I can't help thinking about – what might happen." He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "With the final coming up and all."

"The future's the future. " Dean could see movement in the dimness as Sam shrugged. "Let it come when it does and we'll manage it then."

\--

 _Victor had known Bobby for years and years – he'd been a member of a team who'd been pretty successful in regional Midwestern GFMX events, competing against the Hunters pretty often and knowing them well; it had been a friendly and productive rivalry, the teams spurring each other on, at least until the Hunters started moving up at a pace faster than Victor's team could keep up with._

 _The growth of GFMX nationwide and its movement into a more professional and recognized sport had led to an increase in legislation and on top of that, resultant costs: the registration and administration of GFMX teams. Victor's team had gotten into a mess with the paperwork and an unreliable team leader cooking the books, and the team had fallen apart pretty spectacularly – Dean was only seventeen at that point, not riding out with team as anything more than a potential backup, but he'd remembered it because Ellen and Bobby had invited Victor into the camp to talk about the whole situation; Victor had done a double-take when he'd seen the Winchester boys were still around and 'growing like the proverbial weeds'._

 _It was the obvious, easy step to get Victor on board, backup rider first off with a direct path, when he and they were ready, to riding out as part of the main team. He was a great rider, knew the world and the circuit and importantly the Hunters well, and never managed to fully let go of the habit of treating Sam and Dean like children even once they joined full time. Dean knew Sam at least kind of liked it; maybe it was an unconscious desire for parental figures where Sam was lacking them, but he always indulged Victor's concern and questions with a ducked head and a grin._

 _Maybe it was Victor's subconscious desire for the kids he never had, because when Corbett joined the team a few years later he took him under his wing, and it was almost funny to watch them work together on the bikes, matched in skill and power, then come out of the arena and have Victor fussing over Corbett like a dad; which, of course, was something that Corbett thrived under._

\--

They arrived back at the camp in the middle of the night, sleepily decamped straight from the bus to the trailers, planning to finish up the unpacking of the equipment and bikes and gear tomorrow. Dean slept better back in his trailer than he had on the bus, Sam a comforting presence breathing just across the other side of the trailer; at least until they were woken by Bobby's annoyed shouting around eight the next morning.

"Unngh," groaned Dean, knuckling his fist into his eyes, and hauled himself upright. Sam grunted and flung his arm across his face. The thin blanket outlined his body, drawing Dean's eyes; it seemed impossible in this weak, normal light of morning that that strong, lithe shape of _Sam_ had held him up against a wall and fucked him. Dean looked away. It was way too early for those kind of thoughts.

"What's going on?" mumbled Sam irritably into the crook of his elbow, and Dean padded over to the trailer door and opened it, looking out. It was actually later than they'd get up on any given training day – especially in the lead up to a competition as huge as this – but after a night drive Bobby was good about letting people sleep in, so something must've been up.

There was a media crew parked outside the gates, a couple vans, some obviously full of filming stuff, and people milling around, and Dean could see another van marked with ESPN2's logo over one side. Bobby was standing facing the gates, but a way from them, like he didn't want to go too near, arms crossed and looking extremely pissed off. Ellen, in jeans, an inside-out t-shirt, and slippers, was at the gate talking to whoever was on the other side.

"Looks like we have an uninvited media crew descending on us," said Dean over his shoulder to Sam, then crossed the central yard to Bobby. "What's going on?"

Bobby fixed his glare onto Dean instead.

"Did you know about this?"

Dean spread his hands. "About what?"

Bobby huffed and returned his death glare to where Ellen was reluctantly getting the gates opened. "Mix-up of communication apparently. There was meant to be an agreed visit for the media to come here again for the lead up the the final, and do a few interviews, TV spot on our training routines, that kind of thing. They say they cleared it with Ellen, she says she had no idea about it, and I'm inclined to trust her over these greedy media monkeys, but looks like we're gonna have to put up with cameras and interference whilst we're trying to get going on our last week of training before the goddamn _final_."

Dean wasn't too annoyed – they'd mainly get a lot of footage of grumpy riders unpacking all the gear they'd brought back from the competition, before they'd get any training shots in because they weren't going to get to start actually riding until the afternoon – and the team was all buzzed enough off of the win in Miami they'd probably give some pretty good interviews, even with the irritation of the surprise of the media descending. Winning or not, it was always a plus to have a good public image for a team, because it helped morale and, sad to say, helped the big players in the biking world want to give out sponsorships.

Dean even gave a couple of interviews himself, as the media crew started spreading around the camp and getting in the way, though it was pretty clear they were miffed Sam wasn't with him, and even though Dean didn't know where Sam was and was mildly concerned the way he always was when he didn't know where his brother was, he wasn't about to go looking for him just to give the reporter from ESPN2 some good sound bites between the star brothers, and he certainly wasn't going to inflict the Spike TV guy who kept following him around onto Sam; Dean disliked the gross kind of humor and vulgarity they always tried to push – like kicking ass upside down on a bike wasn't cool enough, they had to talk about bitches and their sweaty balls or whatever – but Sam had pretty much _no_ tolerance for it.

Sam didn't even show up when they rode down to the practice arena to get some jumps in. They were only doing individual jumps practice, and easy warm up before they got into the training schedule more intensely from tomorrow, so they didn't need the whole team, but Dean couldn't concentrate properly.

The sun was starting to lengthen in the sky when they got back to the camp, and Dean let out a breath when he saw Sam stalking across towards his trailer. "Sam!" he shouted, and Sam turned his head, and Dean was taken aback at the dark look on his face.

"Hey, Sam!" shouted the EPSN2 reporter who'd been talking with her cameraman. Sam shook his head, kept his eyes on Dean and jerked his head towards the trailer, leaving Dean to put off the reporter. "He's, uh, not up for interviewing just now," he said. He forced a wide grin. "He knows I'd only steal the limelight anyway."

The reporter looked like she wanted to object, but their access to the training camp ran out around that time anyway and they had to start packing up their stuff, so she left a little reluctantly as Dean walked as calmly as he could to his trailer.

"Dean! Dean Winchester!" cried a guy, heading over towards him from near the gates. "Let me have a moment?"

Sam was in the trailer, upset and about something; no way Dean was going to hang around and talk to some pissant reporter who should've spent the whole morning they'd shouldered their way into to talk to him. "Sorry, man, I'm off the clock, stuff to do."

"Seriously, Mr Winchester, you're going to want to hear what I–"

"No!" growled Dean, stopping in his racks and glaring at the guy, who looked shocked for a moment, before flattening his mouth into an annoyed line.

"Perhaps later," he said.

" _Perhaps_ ," said Dean, and went into his trailer.

Sam was pacing up and down, shoulders tense, and he whirled around when Dean came in.

Dean closed the door quickly, unformed apprehension thick in his chest. Was Sam angry at him for some reason?

"Fucking _Azazel_ ," spat Sam, and kicked at the frame of his bed, making it jerk a way across the floor with a screeching shudder.

Dean was selfishly relieved for a second before he really caught on to what Sam had said. "Wait – what? Did they–"

Sam sat down on the bed he'd kicked, glowered at the floor. "I don't know how they got in, piggybacking with the media I guess, or maybe they somehow managed to engineer the whole situation in the first place so they could slip in unnoticed with all the vans and reporters coming and going, but – they talked to me in the garage this morning, took me to this van I _thought_ to do an interview; turns out it was two representatives from Azazel and – they fucking took me to see their, I don't know, head guy, CEO, whatever."

Dean sat down abruptly on his bed opposite from Sam's. Sam had kicked his own bed out enough that their knees almost brushed, sitting opposite each other. Dean felt weird, dizzy, horrified at these people – taking Sam away, talking to him, like Sam could ever have anything to do with those people. "Are you okay?"

Sam let the corner of his mouth turn up. "Well, yeah, they're not actually dangerous. " His smile dropped away. "So fucking pissed off, though, like you wouldn't believe. They were trying to – you know, recruit me."

Dean nodded. "I – I figured as much. I'm surprised they haven't until now."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe this was the first chance they could get? I never would agree to talk to them normally. They – fuck, Dean, you don't even know what they can offer. They said I could be the headline rider, that I could decide exactly what role I wanted in the show, do as many tricks as I like, that if I decided now they could get the paperwork through tomorrow and they trusted me to be able to perform in their routine for the _final_."

"Are they fucking insane? That's a week away!"

Sam shrugged. "And he – the main guy – god, I don't even know his real name. He just – he's like the whole corporate body in one sleazy person, he _is_ Azazel. This utterly soulless weasel of a man. He offered – god. A huge guaranteed monthly salary for three years even in the off-peak times, plus bonuses for competitions and performance shows, top billing like I said, my own TV spot show to air weekly on the GFMX roundup show on ESPN2 if I wanted it, a three year sponsorship and advertising deal, with Honda, not to mention the connections and little incentives on top of that to give me a lucrative career for a good ten years, which, fuck, it's–"

"It's the same as _centuries_ in the extreme sports world." Dean felt like Sam was speaking to him though a long echoing tunnel, and he focused on breathing. "Did – did you–"

"Dean." Sam was raising his eyebrows. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt because I know you can be a bit fucking dumb about expecting me to leave, you have something commonly known as a blind spot about it, but if you seriously think for one more second I'd take them up on the deal, I'll punch you in the face."

"Hey!" said Dean, affronted and swimming in a sudden rush of relief. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "You'd better not," he grumbled.

Sam shook his head. "Not leaving the team, not leaving you. They could offer me half the goddamn world and I'd never even consider it. I got everything I need right here."

"Jesus," groaned Dean, but Sam was grinning at him, like he knew how fucking cheesy he was being and reveled in making Dean feel awkward.

Sam stood up, started pacing again, less frantic than before. "They're so desperate. They know we're the biggest threat, the team I mean, and they know that _we're_ , you and me, the strongest point of the team." Sam looked a little abashed. "Not that–"

Dean grinned. "Rest of the team's not here, you can say we're the best riders, it's not arrogant if it's true, and we know everyone else on the team is incredible too, and it's the six of us that win, not the two of us."

Sam nodded. "Right. But they know we're the threat – head of the snake, or whatever. They probably thought I was – I dunno, the weakest link, being the younger brother, like I'd be more tempted by power. They implied that," he said awkwardly.

Dean grinned. "What, you mean you're not itching to get out from under my shadow?"

Sam grinned. "Nah. Kinda like it there. They're probably going to come to you with the same offer, you know."

Dean frowned. "I think they already tried – when I was on my way over here, some guy tried to accost me. I told him to stick it, didn't even know who it was, thought it was a reporter, but wouldn't surprise me if it was someone from Azazel already moving on to me if you were a wash."

Sam frowned. "They won't get another chance 'til the final, 'til we're in Philadelphia. At which point it'll be too late to get us to ride with them for the final, maybe they'll try to convince us to just not ride with the Hunters; without us riding out with our team, the Demons are more likely to win–"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, good luck to them, convincing us to bail out from under our team the day before the final."

Sam grinned at that. "Pretty much. I told them where they could stick it this time around, anyway. Not sure why they think they're going to convince me to leave."

Dean sighed. "It's worked for a lot of other people, though, hasn't it? They've got a full team of very talented riders, they've managed to sneak in and attack their greed and pride and coax them over." He snorted. "And they were happy to fuck over the rest of the riders in a heartbeat to offer you top billing, screw anyone else already riding for them. Some fucking team spirit."

Sam shook his head. "Can you imagine what the atmosphere is over there? You couldn't give me enough of anything to go." He looked around their little trailer, then back at Dean. He watched him for a long moment and a pleasant sort of tingle flashed across the back of Dean's neck. He was aware of where their knees touched between the beds, how the blinds were drawn and the door closed and they hadn't touched each other since Miami.

"Plus there's another good reason for me staying right here," said Sam with a totally unsexy failed attempt to raise one eyebrow.

Dean hiked his easily in response, grinning at Sam's exasperated half blink. "Oh really?"

Sam fisted his hands in Dean's shirt and yanked, so Dean toppled forward across the space between them and ended up practically sprawled in Sam's lap, knees splayed out on the thin mattress either side of Sam's hips. He laughed, breathless and kind of scared, again, but feeling a little crazy, too, in a good way. "Ah, I see," he said. "You think I'm easy."

"You put out already," said Sam, "pretty sure I'm on to a winner."

Dean shifted, settled himself more comfortably, watched Sam slowly bite his lip as Dean settled their hips snug against each other. His hand came up to palm the back of Dean's neck. "Shit," breathed Dean. It still seemed half like a dream, but Sam touching him like this, all slow, hot intent, right here on their familiar crappy beds in this familiar little trailer, South Carolina's late afternoon light leaking through the blinds – it grounded it in reality more so than the fever dream they'd sailed through with the adrenaline and violent cracking apart of tension that had fueled them in Miami.

"Are we really doing this?" he said, keeping eye contact so Sam knew he wasn't freaking out, not properly, not backing out, just – asking.

Sam just grinned at him, anyway. "Hell yes," he said, his smile a wild, bright thing that echoed through Dean, spreading into his bones that giddy sort of recklessness he was familiar with from shows, from nailing a trick, from knowing there was nowhere else he'd rather be in the world; except this time he wanted something else between his legs other than a bike.

He snorted at himself. "What?" said Sam, but Dean grinned and leaned in to kiss him, dry touch of lips until they both opened their mouths into it, the intimate softness of the inside of Sam's mouth feeling hot against Dean's skin when Sam caught Dean's lower lip between his and sucked.

Dean moved his hands to Sam's shoulders, pushed gently until Sam leaned back, twisting to lie flat on the bed that was too small really for the both of them but Dean wasn't going to move, not with Sam's hands big on his face and his body solid and warm under Dean's. Dean's thighs spread over Sam's hips, and he groaned at the pleasant ridge of Sam's cock shoved up against his. He wanted to touch it; he shoved up with his knees and got his hand between them to fumble open Sam's fly, clumsy in his sudden frantic need to feel the hot thickness of Sam's dick in his palm. "Ah, Dean–" said Sam, then breathed in sharply as Dean tugged his cock out. He pushed Sam's shirt up so he could see Sam's cock fall back hard against his flat belly, and he trailed his fingertips up it for a moment with a smirk, watching as it twitched violently, before Sam grabbed his wrist. "Swear to god–" said Sam, and Dean grinned, wrapped his hand around it properly.

He'd had this cock up his ass, but somehow this felt more intimate – looking intently down, learning the shape of Sam's dick with his palm and fingers, the only sound in the quiet trailer the sound of both of them breathing fast and unsteady. He gripped more firmly, started to move his hand faster, started up the rhythm he used on himself. Sam squirmed under him, strained his hips upwards, and he let out a ragged groan as his cock twitched and smeared precome from the slit, smoothing the slide of Dean's hand as he sped up, the ridge of Sam's cockhead slipping past the side of Dean's hand.

Dean stopped, hand wrapped around the base, against Sam's balls. "Hey – _Dean_ ," said Sam, sounding affronted, but Dean looked down, biting his lip.

"I wanna–" he said, then went for it anyway, shifting down on the bed. He leaned forward, and could smell the tang of Sam's cock, the salty sex smell of the precome dribbling out, before he opened his mouth and could taste it, taking the head into his mouth in one go. It felt so odd on his tongue, so slippery smooth; he tightened his lips, careful of his teeth, and sucked hard. He had to shove his forearm against Sam's hips to stop him choking Dean when he thrust up with a gorgeous choked-off cry, and the feel of Sam's cock in his mouth was weird, but he could get used to it; and hearing Sam lose it, feeling the tense twitching of his stomach muscles; _that_ turned the whole thing into incredibly fucking hot.

He jerked his fist up and down the base of Sam's cock and used his mouth and tongue to suck and lick over the top half – maybe he'd learn to go deeper one day, get Sam to buy him some fucking dinner first or something – but Sam seemed perfectly happy with just that, his hand petting softly around Dean's face, thumb brushing the stretched corner of Dean's mouth and fingers pressing in his cheeks so he could feel the shape of himself inside Dean's mouth; his other hand fisted up tight in the sheets, and a mix of words and helpless groans tangling together spilling from his mouth.

"Dean, oh god – Dean, I'm gonna–"

Dean pulled up with a firm slurp, and sat up and jerked Sam fast through his orgasm, watching intently as Sam pumped a thick wet load of come over his belly. "Shit," said Dean, used his clean hand to scrabble open his own pants and get his dick out before using the hand that was dripping with Sam's come to jerk himself off, slick and hot and so fucking good.

"Aw, shit," groaned Sam, "you're fucking dirty, man." His fingers bumped clumsily against Dean's and then he wrapped his big hand around the outside of Dean's, stroked along with him, and Dean came with a full-body shudder, back arched and hips humping up into Sam's grip.

\--

The team trained with a quiet sort of intensity that was pretty new, over the next few days. They'd had big competitions before, performed in multiple regional finals, not to mention all previous heats in Apocalypse, but this was big – this was huge, national, a scale that they hadn't faced; and it settled with a scary kind of seriousness into their bones. Even the fact they'd done so well in Miami hadn't calmed anyone down – if anything, no-one could quite believe they'd be able to match it, so they were training harder than ever. Bobby officially called an end to training at six o'clock in the evening, but most of the team stayed out until at least eight, when the dimming light made it dangerous without getting the spotlights all turned on, and they only bothered to get all the electrics up and running in the arena for the 'dress rehearsal' the day before they'd leave.

Jo and Tamara convinced themselves that they weren't raising their front wheels as high as everyone else in the wheelie formation riding segment and drove everyone nuts roaring around the camp until way too late into the night; Corbett bailed out of a backflip halfway, which everyone did at some point, but he developed such a mental block about it he couldn't even attempt another backflip for two days. Bobby was just starting to get seriously concerned, because having a rider who couldn't complete a backflip just wasn't going to work, but Sam took Corbett into his trailer for an hour long pep-talk, and who knows what he said but Corbett came out looking pleased and determined and promptly executed the highest quality backflip he'd pretty much ever done.

Dean smirked at Sam. "I don't know what you did to him in there, but should I be jealous?"

Sam laughed, a big open laugh with his head tipped back. "You're the only one for me," he said, smirking right back, but it was kinda nice to hear it anyway.

On Thursday, around midday when pretty much everyone else was out at the arena training, two days before they had to leave for Philadelphia for the final, Sam and Dean were making out in the dimness at the back of the garage, the metal door rolled halfway down. They were kissing with a giddiness that came from the slight fear of someone walking in even though the rest of the team was out at the arena training; kissing with that half-crazy eagerness of the newness of it, still, of something feeling so damn good; touching each other because they could hardly stand not to.

Sam pressed his wide palm at the small of Dean's back, pulled him in close. "We seriously need to figure out some sot of – schedule," he said into Dean's mouth, "so we don't keep realizing, shit, we haven't had sex in a whole day, clearly we need to sneak off in the middle of the day like horny teenagers."

"You pretty much are a horny teenager," said Dean with a smirk, hands settled on Sam's hips; Dean was leaning back against a bike, Sam looming pleasantly over him. "Whippersnapper."

Sam laughed. "That's a pretty disturbing thing to say, in the context," he said, rolling his hips in a dirty grind into Dean.

Dean growled. "Shut up," he said, and went back to sucking on Sam's bottom lip, testing his teeth on the softness of it.

  
"Let me–" said Sam, twisting them and getting one leg over the seat of the bike in a graceful movement that made Dean shudder. He tugged at Dean until Dean did the same, sitting backwards on the bike, facing Sam, then pulled Dean's legs over his own. Sam kissed him, moved down to mouth hotly at Dean's neck as Dean tipped his head back, bracing his elbows on the handlebars. "Wanna turn the engine on," said Sam, lips whispering over Dean's throat, "feel it vibrate between our legs, get you off to it."

Dean groaned, wanting it too, tempted to say _fuck it_ to keeping quiet and just do it, feel that familiar sexy growl of the bike shudder up into him with Sam's hand on his dick. He arched his hips into Sam's, rocking between rubbing his cock against Sam and his balls down into the seat.

Sam had one hand on Dean's face, cupping his jaw in this sexy, tender way he always had when kissing Dean; he opened Dean's fly with his other hand, got Dean's dick out and started pumping it slowly.

"God," said Dean, heart pounding at the gorgeous feel of Sam's hand pulling pleasure from him, and at the awful, thrilling fear of doing this right here, with daylight coming in from outside, protected from others' eyes only by luck, hope, a half-closed garage door and the shadowy darkness they hid in.

He shifted his weight so he could get his right hand in between them and return the favor, spitting on his palm then jerking off Sam in counterpoint to the fast rhythm Sam set on him. His thighs tensed with the pleasure of it, and he half wanted it to last, half wanted it over quickly, not tempting fate.

"God, wish I could fuck you right now," said Sam, head tipped forward onto Dean's shoulder. "I'm gonna, one day, gonna fuck you on a big old classic bike, a Harley or something, wide seat, solid wheels – spread you out over the seat with the engine running hot and fuck you until you can't speak–"

Dean clenched his jaw hard and came, rocking on the bike and speeding his hand up on Sam's dick until Sam heaved in two fast shocked breaths and followed him, sudden and wet over Dean's fingers.

They could hear footsteps outside. "Dean?" It was Jo's voice.

Dean felt like he'd been kicked in the chest; he shoved at Sam, and they both struggled frantically off the bike, trying to get away from each other and do up their flies at the same time. Sam shrugged off his button down that he was thankfully wearing over a t-shirt, wiped his hand clean and chucked it at Dean. Dean wiped his hand off, threw the shirt to the side and crouched down, pretending to be looking at the bike's engine – the bike he'd just swapped handjobs with his brother on – and Sam took two big steps away from Dean and opened a random toolbox.

Jo ducked in, the fall of her blonde hair bright in the sunlight slanting under the door. "Hey, are you – oh, hey, guys, there you are! We need everyone for a run through."

"Sorry," said Dean, heart thudding. He stood up. "We were just taking a break." He forced a grin. "Sammy gets too nervous sometimes, gotta talk him down."

Sam shot him a standard little-brother annoyed look a couple seconds too delayed. There was still a pink sex flush on his cheeks. Dean felt a little insane.

He looked back at Jo, who seemed unfazed, oblivious. "Well, come on, then. No slacking off if we're gonna win, right?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I mean – of course. Be out in a second."

She left, ducking back under the door, and Dean slumped back onto the bike, half sitting on the edge, and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Shit," he said miserably.

Sam came over, stood in front of Dean. "Hey," he said, and put a hand on the back of Dean's neck. Part of Dean wanted to shake it off, but it did feel good. Even before this whole thing, he'd always taken a comfort in physical contact from Sam that nothing else really had. "She didn't suspect anything."

"I know," said Dean, frustrated, "but she could. What about next time? Huh? What the fuck are we _thinking_ , with this."

Sam shrugged. His mouth was small and tight. "I dunno. I don't have any answers. I just – it's not like we have a choice, now."

Dean looked away. "Technically, we do. We always have a choice." He didn't sound convinced to his own ears, though, and Sam clearly wasn't, either.

"I guess. Technically. But walking away from this isn't going be a choice I can make, not now. You?" Sam had his chin stuck out defiantly, but he looked so young in that moment, which didn't make Dean feel any better.

But Sam was right. He couldn't stop this now they had it. "Yeah, I guess not," he said, and tipped his head forward to lean into Sam's chest. Sam moved his hand from the back of Dean's neck to the side, cupped over his jaw, and they stayed like that for a minute, before Sam tugged Dean up for a fierce, quick kiss, and then they walked back out into the sunlight and back to training.

\--

Maybe it was lingering fear, maybe it was the first crack in the giddy bubble they'd been in since Miami, maybe it was for the first time realizing that this wasn't all fun, this thing between them could be dangerous and have some fucked-up consequences if people found out; or maybe it was just the fact that with the final racing up to meet them, there was only room in their minds and bodies for biking and the importance of what they had to do as a team so soon – but they didn't really touch each other beyond what passed as normal, after that time in the garage. They hadn't exactly agreed not to, spoken or unspoken, and it wasn't a big awkward problem – they just got up, trained, trained some more, talked about the show and their tricks, and fell exhausted into bed.

Two days later, the morning that they were to leave the training camp for the day-long drive up the the stadium in Philadelphia, everyone was helping pack up the trucks ready to get on the road. They'd arrive there late that night, have the next day to settle in, then the day after that the competition itself would start in the late afternoon.

If the nerves before the semis had been bad – that was nothing. Dean felt like his chest was packed with cotton, no breaths going deep enough. His skin kept prickling with an uncomfortable awareness that felt like he needed to do something or had forgotten something important, and he kept having realizations over and over – oh, yes. The competition. _That's_ what he had to do.

He'd had brief arguments with everyone on the team, like everyone had had with pretty much everyone else, and he'd had a full on shouting match with Sam over something he couldn't even remember now, and everyone was sort of packing up in sullen silence.

"Screw this," said Bobby suddenly, and everyone turned to look at him in surprise as he dumped a box of tools in the middle of the yard with a poof of dust. He glared around at everyone. "We're acting like a buncha lambs waiting for the slaughter, instead of being excited. I know we're all nervous, I've puked up breakfast these past two mornings from imagining all the ways this could go wrong–"

Corbett groaned. "Thanks for that, Bobby."

"– but we need to be looking forward to this. We love riding, we love competition, we love kicking the ass of teams who deserve to get the shit beat of of them, and we ain't gonna be any kind of decent showing against Azazel's Demons if we're not enjoying ourselves. Everyone, grab your second-string bikes outta the garage before we load them up and meet me down at the arena. And no, we aren't gonna be riding one second of the show. We know it. We're good at it. We just need to remember how to have fun on these damn bikes."

Dean caught Sam's eye with a grin.

Their second string bikes were rougher, older bikes done for very basic practice, ones that you could be hard on, crunch the gears and engines without worrying too much about keeping it running smoothly for performance; Bobby made them all race up to the arena and spent an hour making them all play stupid biking games. Races around the arena, trying to get as many tricks into two minutes as possible, a game Bobby called 'Musical Bikes' but was mostly everyone riding around and, on a whistle, all racing down to the big ramp at the end of the arena, the last one making the jump having to sit out. They did relay races in teams of two, then a race with two people on the same bike, cue arguing over who got to sit bitch. It started raining very lightly after a while but they kept on, and after an hour everyone was laughing, sweaty, and splattered with mud that sprayed up from their wheels, but feeling a hundred times better.

"Now, you bunch of whiners, let's go finish packing up and get out to Philly thinking we _can_ actually beat those yellow-bellied fuckers."

"Hear, hear," said Sam to Dean, with a wry twist to his mouth. "Race you back to the trucks."

They ended up leaving South Carolina later than they should have, but the coaches were full of high spirits all day, not the tense, nervous silence Dean had been dreading. Sam was lounging, relaxed, looking way too big for the small bench he was crammed into, hands splayed over the table between them. Their boots were pressed comfortably together. "Bobby really knows what he's doing," said Sam.

Dean grinned. "He mostly raised us. Dealing with your bitchy ass as a teenager means he can probably deal with anyone. He could probably become an international diplomat."

Sam kicked at his foot idly. "Jerk. You know, you'd be good too."

"An international diplomat?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "At leading the team, how Bobby does. You probably will one day, and you'll be awesome at it."

Dean didn't think about the future too much, but it had crossed his mind, that it was likely that might be his role when Bobby decided he'd had enough, and Dean couldn't decide if he wanted it or was fucking terrified, so he mostly didn't think about it. He shrugged awkwardly and tried not to smile. "Thanks," he said. "If I do, you'll be my, you know. Second in command, or whatever. So you'll have to damn well help."

"Well, duh."

They got to the team sites location – this time located half a mile down from the stadium itself – in Philadelphia later than planned, in the small hours of the morning; bleary-eyed, everyone dragged their gear into the site, unloaded the bikes into the garage, and crashed into their trailers as quickly as they could to grab a couple hours' sleep before getting up tomorrow to properly settle in, organize themselves, and prepare.

Dean was tired enough to finally not feel nervous. He rolled onto his side and looked at Sam, whose eyes were open and glittering slightly in the faint light that came into their trailer and fell across half Sam's face. "Hey, Dean," he said.

"Yeah?"

Sam grinned, eyes narrowing. "We're in Philadelphia."

"Uh. Yeah?"

"City of Brotherly Love."

Dean snorted. "Oh, jeez. That's so–" He didn't even really know what to say, just smirked back at Sam. His face felt hot.

Sam laughed, shoulders shifting. "We gotta pay homage to that at some point, yeah? Night, Dean."

Dean shoved his face into the pillow, telling himself they needed to sleep, not – anything else. "Night. Fucker."

\--

The nerves were back in the morning. Tomorrow, one measly day, and it would be the final, what they'd been working towards; years' worth of work. And yeah – it was just a competition. They'd have another shot at it the next year, or after that, it didn't make any real difference if they didn't win, it wasn't life or death.

It just sort of felt like it.

Dean leaned over the tiny sink and splashed water on his face, scrubbed at it with a ratty towel, and jumped nearly a foot in the air when he felt warm hands settle on his hips, worm under his thin sleep t-shirt to rest on his skin. Sam grinned at him in the stained mirror, leaned to kiss the side of his neck.

"Sam," said Dean, then sighed, because – because it felt wonderful, the gentle heat of Sam sucking lightly on his neck, and he didn't want to stop him. "We're going to win, right?" he said instead.

Sam stopped working his mouth over Dean's skin, looked at Dean somberly in the mirror. "No way in hell I'm letting tomorrow evening close on a day where that smug fuck is lifting the trophy," he said.

Dean twisted around in Sam's hold and put his hands on Sam's face and kissed him, deeply and eagerly. "You better be right," he breathed, then kissed him again. Sam opened his mouth with a gorgeous little noise, and Dean was slicking his tongue over the smoothness of Sam's lips when there was a banging on their trailer door and Bobby yelling, "Up and at 'em!"

Dean's heart gave a thickly awful thud of shamed fear and he reflexively shoved Sam away. Sam stumbled backwards, caught himself on the low dresser.

"Shit," said Dean, heart going fast. He looked up at Sam. "Don't look at me like that."

Sam scowled. "I'm sorry, how else am I supposed to look at you? The door's locked. You carry on like this you'll be punching me in the face next time I so much as touch you. What are you so scared about?"

Dean gaped, and gestured loosely at the door. "What am I–?"

Bobby tramped back up the the door and knocked again. "Come on, guys, you don't need any more beauty sleep, get up!"

Dean sighed. "Look. Let's just get out there. We need to focus on the competition. Yeah?"

Dean stepped towards the door, but Sam reached out, long arms across the narrow trailer, and caught Dean's wrist. He pulled tentatively, until Dean stepped towards him, close, close enough for Sam to move in and kiss. Dean let it happen, because confused and scared as he was, there hadn't ever been anything else in the world he'd found that felt as good as Sam's lips against his. He was so fucked.

The weather was pleasant, when they came out of the trailer and grabbed some breakfast from the bagels Ellen had had run over by one of her admin team, and pitched in with getting their site set up and bikes and gear ready to go for the next day. The sun was warm but not stifling, though there was a heaviness in the air and clouds lurking on the edge of the horizon that made Dean think there was a thunderstorm coming at some point. At least the stadium wasn't open-air.

It felt different to the Miami semis in so many ways – with only two teams, there was much less of a community feel, and for whatever reason, Azazel's Demons were set up in a site distanced from Winchester's Hunters. Dean was glad in a way – he didn't want to feel like he had to be pally with them – but it was also a pretty good psychological tactic from the Demon's side, emphasizing their mystery and elitism and separation from the rest of the GFMX world. They were clearly going for intimidating.

Sam curled his lip up as he secured his bike in the garage. "Good thing we're not easily intimidated."

"Exactly," grunted Dean, rubbing a cloth over the panels on his own bike, looking over it critically. "They can fuck around and keep themselves distanced all they want, the only thing I'm going to think is that they're too damn shamed about abandoning their teams and being sucked in by greed to face us."

Jo wheeled her bike in. "Good fucking thing they're _not_ in a site next next to us, I'd walk right over there just to spit on their bikes."

Sam grinned. "Tell you want, we get bored later, you and I'll go looking for them so we can do that."

"Children," said Dean, shaking his head.

They didn't have time to get bored all day, as it turned out – there was more than enough to do, from a two-hour brief training session on the practice ramps that Bobby insisted on, to each person's individual day-before superstitious care routine for their bikes, to being forced into the media circus in the afternoon, doing interviews and a few stupid photo shoots.

That was where they first caught sight of the Demons, over the other side of the media bay outside the stadium itself. Dean snorted, because the Demons were in full riding get up, everything but helmets, and their suits were a deep navy blue leather with silver accents and two slim yellow panels on the chests. Nice design, but Dean thought they looked too flashy, uncomfortable and a bit stupid compared to their team, who were all in jeans and loose Kawasaki sports shirts; but he saw Corbett and Victor eying the Demons nervously, exchanging looks and glancing down at their own clothes.

"Fuckers," he murmured to Sam, "trying to make us feel inferior. I think it's working on some of us."

Sam glanced over at the slight chuntering going on in the rest of the Hunters, then back to Dean. "Shit." He sighed. "We gotta make sure everyone knows it's not how we look. We're comfortable and confident; they're the ones trying too hard. We all need to have faith in our riding, our bikes, and in each other, that's all that's going to matter."

Dean knew that, of course, and he knew the rest of the team did, really, but – there was something about the united presence of the Demons, this arrogant collection of some of the best riders the GFMX world had to offer; not to mention the way the media was fawning over them. Enough to make anyone feel a little on edge, being pitted against that.

Half an hour later, Dean turned around from the last interview he'd have to give for the day, and couldn't see Sam. People were milling around – the riders would be heading back to their sites, the media and the public into the stadium for the warmup first night show; he saw Sam's head above the crowd and faltered when he realized Sam was surrounded by two riders in full Demons get up, and a smirking guy that Dean knew, somehow, was the guy Sam had talked about before – the CEO, the top guy, embodiment of _Azazel_ himself. He was suddenly pissed.

He stalked over there, resisting grabbing Azazel and saying _get away from my brother_ , which probably wouldn't go over too well.

"Hey, Sammy," he said instead, walking up to Sam's right side; he saw relief slide over Sam's face when he saw Dean.

"Hey brother," said Sam, moving subtly closer to Dean.

"Who're your friends?" said Dean, knowing he was being insolent but not really giving a shit.

"This is the creator and leader of Azazel's Demons – with some bonus Demons for our viewing pleasure," said Sam dryly. The two guys standing either side of Azazel didn't say anything, just looked on a with a blankly arrogant slight sneer.

The guy – Azazel, Dean couldn't call him anything else, didn't even care if he had a real name – raised his eyebrows at Dean, looking far too pleased. "Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe! Pleasure," he said, and held his hand out.

  
Dean stared at it, then at Azazel, then brought his hand up and shook Azazel's – though it was less a shake and more a harsh grip, neither breaking eye contact.

"Wish I could say that same," said Dean.

Azazel smiled, a slow, shark-like expression. "Now, Dean, that's not too nice."

"Excuse me if I don't agree with your business practices; poaching has never been something I've been on board with."

"Oh, come, Deano, I wouldn't say poaching. All my riders came to me totally willingly. I just offer a new level of opportunities for these talented men and women."

"You mean a whole new level of profit," said Sam.

"Profit isn't the point here, Sammy."

" _Don't_ call me Sammy."

Azazel looked delighted at that. "You are entertaining, I hope you know that. If you weren't such a good rider, I'd want to mess with you anyway, because self-righteousness looks so amusing on you. Really, Sammy, you're my favorite. But no, Winchesters – believe me or don't but my riders are here because they want to win. They want success. I assume that's what you boys want?"

Dean stared at him, hating him with an intensity that was almost thrilling. "It's what we're going to _get_."

Azazel's eyes sharpened as he looked at Dean. "If you boys refuse to join me, I can promise you won't win. Not against my Demons. If you want to win, you join me. If you want to actually get the rewards that are due to you, if you want to finally be given a decent spotlight away from that ragtag bunch of monkeys you ride around with – then join me."

Dean could feel Sam held tense next to him, anger and violence shuddering under the surface. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and took a step towards Azazel. "That's a mighty generous offer, let me think – oh, wait. How about you and your _Demons_ take your helmets and jam them up your asses blunt end first. I'd rather lose and keep my team – my family – together, than win anything as part of your disloyal bunch of greedy _dicks_."

Azazel just nodded. "Come back to me after you've tasted defeat. Deano, Sammy – great chat, really." He knocked his shoulder companionably against Dean's as he walked off, and this time it was Sam who had to put a restraining hand on Dean's shoulder.

\--

Sam and Dean told their team over dinner that night that Azazel had been coming after them; it was something they should share, and no-one was exactly surprised that he'd tried to get Sam and Dean over to the Demons.

Bobby frowned a little. "I recognized him – the guy you say was Azazel, you were talking with earlier. He's a bit camera shy, isn't he, considering he's the top dog. He used to be a rider, way back in the day, in your parents' day – FMX solo, though, some up-and-comer, then he kind of disappeared."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe he couldn't cut it riding on his own so took a different tack? Managing a team where his own riding doesn't matter, just his ability to lure people in and manipulate them into winning for him."

Dean sneered. "Cause that's real integrity and sportsmanship."

"Or _woman_ ship, thanks," said Jo, grinning. "I'm not surprised he came after you guys, though. Azazel - they've done it with all the top riders."

Sam nodded. "I think they were staying away from our team, because we're kinda known for the family and loyalty ties, what with the team's history. But they're getting desperate. They might be going after more of you," he said, "because every single person on this team is an exceptional rider."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. "We can't tell anyone what to say or do, but I want people to be careful. It might seem like a good deal, but I don't trust them far as I could throw 'em, and there's probably all sorts of loopholes–"

"Oh, shut up, Dean," said Tamara dismissively, "not a single one of us is going to even think about going over no matter they offer us the world, right? We'd as soon quit and work for Wal-Mart than join them."

Everyone chimed in with very vocal agreement, and Sam and Dean grinned at each other. "Okay," said Sam, tipping his beer at them. "Well I guess the only thing left is to beat them hollow. We ready for that?"

There was a chorus of agreement, but Azazel's words played in Dean's head. _I can promise you won't win_. Scare tactics, he knew, but it felt ominous, and the threatening roll of thunder from the east – the direction of Azazel's site, of freaking course – made his skin prickle unhappily.

He twisted around in bed, later, knowing he wasn't going to get to sleep easily.

"Dean?"

"Mmm?"

He heard Sam shift around, then heard him get out of his bed and step across to Dean's, sit down on the edge. His hand landed on Dean's back, a pleasantly warm weight, but Dean tensed. It wasn't – it wasn't that he didn't want Sam to touch him. His body did, his skin did. He just didn't want to want it, not right now – maybe it was the nerves about competition, maybe it was the unease about Azazel bleeding into everything else, maybe it was the scenarios that kept running through his head – Jo ducking into the garage too quickly, her eyes taking in he and Sam pressed together, mouths open against each other – what she might think, _say_ –

It had him on edge.

Sam sighed, took his hand off Dean's back. "Dean. I–"

"Sammy, we need to sleep, okay. Okay? Just – go back to bed."

Sam made a frustrated noise, and Dean knew that even now, out of his prickly teenage stage, he still resisted obeying a direct order, especially if it was something he didn't want to do; but he did. He fell back into his bed with a sigh that sounded less annoyed and more hurt, more than Sam probably meant to let on. It took Dean a while to sleep.

In the morning, he had one of those disorienting moments where he had no idea where he was – for some reason, he expected to be in the old lumpy bed in Bobby's house, in the room he and Sam grew up in half the year when they weren't out with the team. He realized after a second that the bed felt wrong, but he didn't know where he was, if not there. He lay with his eyes closed trying to figure it out before he gave up and opened his eyes. He was looking at the roof of their trailer, and if he turned his head he could see heavy gray clouds out of the slightly grimy window – right, Philadelphia. Nervousness crashed into his chest like a dog leaping up with eager paws to settle on him, a warm weight that made it hard to breathe, and he wished he'd kept his eyes shut for a while longer.

Sam wasn't meeting his eyes as they moved about the trailer, which didn't make Dean feel any better. He knew he was being a bit of a dick – blowing hot and cold, jerking Sam around just because he was still a bit fucked up about having sex with his brother, which, god, he didn't know how he was _meant_ to adjust to that. But Sam seemed to be okay with it, and it wasn't Sam's fault Dean was a mess – and, fuck, this _wasn't_ what he should be worrying about. They had a competition in a few hours.

"Morning," he said, and Sam did meet his eyes, then.

"Hey," he said. "Ready?"

"God, as I'll ever be, I guess. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited to get out there, but part of me is going to be glad when this is over."

Sam quirked a smile. "Yeah, then a week into the off season you'll be going outta your gourd wanting to get back into the proverbial saddle and do it all over again."

Dean grinned. "Aw, it's as if you know me."

Sam smiled back, and it was better; except a little later they were both in the garage, doing a quick morning check on their bikes before anyone else was in, and Sam came up behind Dean, put a casual hand on the back of his neck.

Dean's shoulders relaxed, then he tensed up sudden and awkward, and shrugged Sam off.

"Fuck–" swore Sam, then shook his head. "Okay, seriously, Dean, what the fuck?"

"What the fuck, me? How about you, doing that while we're – right here, not in private. Christ, Sam!"

Sam just looked at Dean, then shook his head. "You know what? We're doing this, right now. We're talking about this. Come on."

Sam turned to walk away, leaving Dean standing there, angry and confused and helpless. "Sam, we – come on, not now."

Sam turned back around, arms held out wide. "Why not now? There's a fucking _buttload_ of tension between us right now, and not the good kind; you seriously think we can ride together worth shit right now? I need to know what the inside of your head looks like, and I normally can, but right now? I feel like I don't know you like I normally do, and I feel like I'm not going to be able to ride like you're a part of me." He turned and carried on walking.

"Shit!" Dean threw a wrench on the floor where it bounced and narrowly missed rebounding back into his bike. "Shit." The worst thing was, Sam was right. They couldn't ride, like this.

"What do you wanna hear?" he said, low and furious, as he stalked after Sam. "That I'm freaking out? Is that not allowed?"

Sam threw a tight look back over his shoulder but didn't say anything until he'd led Dean to a quiet hidden corner between an empty trailer in a nearby site and chain-link fence that separated the site from the currently-empty practice ramps area this side of the lot.

Sam leaned back against the fence, which rattled and bowed at his weight. "Of course you're allowed – I just wanna know, why, and why now?"

Dean shrugged, not even sure what he was going to say but knowing he had to say something, if only to make it clear to himself what his problem was. This was only going to get worse if he didn't talk it through, and if – if he let it fester, it could ruin them for good. He took a breath, scrubbed a hand over his mouth, and looked up at Sam. "I don't – I'm scared, I guess? Of people finding out. Of this thing having consequences."

Sam nodded. "That was always obvious, though. I don't want people to know either – you think I don't worry about that? But we can do this, if that's all it is. We can be careful, and anyway – we'd have to be pretty dumb for them to find out. It'll be the last thing anyone will think about, and people are so good at rationalizing things away we'd have to have sex in front of them for people to figure it out."

"Sam–"

"So why are you so scared? Is this you finally getting this isn't just the realization of a fantasy, but that it's going to have a future, it's going to carry on, and it's going to have consequences? Because I _want_ this to have a future."

And that was part of the problem, wasn't it? Always had been. He looked up at Sam. "But how can you know it's a future you want, huh? How can you _know_ that? How can you know it's going to always be what you want, that you aren't going to regret it more than anything one day?"

Sam stepped forward, coming off of the fence with a rattling of metal that seemed loud in the quiet morning. "I can't know it, I'm not psychic; just like you can't know for sure. But I want it. Isn't that enough?"

Dean blinked fast and took a step away, rubbing his hand hard though his hair like he could get his thoughts together through force. "But I'm – I'm your brother. Your older brother. You've always looked up to me, so maybe – maybe you just think you want this." Even the concept of that, that he was somehow forcing Sam into this, making Sam think he wanted it, made his stomach clench up and his chest shiver with horror. "How can you know I'm not somehow influencing you, without either of us realizing it, into making you think you want it?" It was everything he'd been trying not to think about, every fear that wasn't going to stay pushed down any longer.

Sam laughed. "Seriously? You think – jesus, Dean. Remember how I initiated this? How I tried and tried to get you to see me like this? You don't even know how long I've wanted you, by the way. Before you knew you wanted anything. And remember how you raised me to have my own mind and make my own decision? Remember how once I hit thirteen I never did a thing you told me? Remember when you told me you were proud of me for it? Were you lying, then? Fuck you, Dean, for not truly believing that I've got my own mind. That I ever grew up."

Words and unsure denials battled uselessly in Dean's head but nothing came past his lips.

Sam dropped his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets. "Is this because you can't see a future?" His voice was quiet now. "Is this you looking ahead and realizing you can't see yourself staying with me?"

No, thought Dean. I look into the future and I cannot for one second imagine myself with anyone else. I think, maybe, that's what I'm most scared of.

He shrugged instead.

Sam looked at him, an angry line scored between his eyebrows. "Fine. Fucking – fine. Come back to me when you've stopped being such a self-sacrificing martyr and realized I'm a grown goddamn man. Tell me you don't want this, that you want a different future with a different person, or tell me you want this for the long haul, tell me before I – before we end up getting hurt worse than we can get over. Tell me if I should go and save some of myself before you have it all; but don't tell me what I want, or what's good for me."

He left, his back an upset tense line, and Dean stepped back against the cool metal wall of the trailer and let out a breath, feeling like all his strength went with it. So many words, Sam's voice and his own messy thoughts ringing around his head, and all he could think was, maybe if this is what happens, maybe we're better off stopping it all right now.

The ugly pain in his chest suggested he might have a screwed up definition of _better off_.

He stepped forward and kicked the fence, once, twice, three times until it was bowed out in a distorted sweep, and he went back to their site.

Sam wasn't around, but that was fine; he needed some space, to try and calm down his whirling thoughts, because the air might be cleared but he didn't feel any calmer and he still had to ride opposite Sam that evening, still had to feel like he could get inside that kid's head and know his every thought and movement. Why was that so easy when they were riding, but now – now he couldn't do it, couldn't look in, couldn't reassure himself that he wasn't irrevocably screwing up the only thing in this world he really cared about, was really proud of.

He smiled at Jo, chatted for a while with Victor, high-fived Corbett in their competition morning ritual, then made his excuse and took his bike off to the practice ramps; the ones over the other side, further from the ones where he and Sam had talked. Fought. Fucked everything up.


	5. Chapter 5

  


\--

His stomach growled, sudden and reminding him that the day was getting on, that Bobby would want him back at the site soon so they could start doing last minute preparations for the show. He did one last jump, keeping it simple, and pulled the bike to a curving halt to look up at the sky. There was a tension there, in the gunmetal gray color over them, that had been growing since his fight with Sam that morning, ironically enough; the heavy bank of low clouds that had been lurking at the horizon were advancing as if for battle, thick and mean looking, and there was a sound far, far away that could have been the approaching rumble of thunder.

He roared into the site to see Bobby waving him down briskly. "There you are, boys, I've been – wait, where's Sam?" Bobby looked behind Dean, confused, like it was impossible they weren't joined at the hip constantly.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't with him."

Bobby looked at him oddly. "You okay?"

"Peachy. So – Sam's not here?"

"No, and he's pushing it. We're gonna need to get over to the prep area soon, check in with the competition admins, get the bikes seen to, costumes on, effects set up. No time to be pissing about."

"I know," said Dean, irritably, "but that doesn't change the fact I don't know where he is."

He remembered Sam storming off, and felt something uncomfortable stir in his chest, like the beginnings of dread.

Half an hour later, when Sam still hadn't shown up, and it was cutting it fine enough that even if Sam was in a real mood somewhere, he wouldn't have not realized he needed to be here, the dread had solidified into a cold lump. "I'll find him," he decided, and swung a leg over his bike.

"Dean!" said Jo. "This is like a fucking horror movie where they disappear one by one, we can't have you running off too, we need to be riding in a fucking hour. He'll show up."

Dean shook his head. "If he was gonna, he would've. I need to find him. Get everything ready. We'll – we'll be there."

He wasn't entirely convinced, but what else could he do? Worst case scenario and Sam had realized sticking here, with Dean, while Dean couldn't even accept the fact Sam wanted to be with him and he wanted Sam – Sam had realized all that was a waste of time. He didn't – didn't really think Sam would go to Azazel, but maybe Sam – wanted out, didn't want to be tied to Dean–

Dean swung around the corner harshly into the practice ramps area – not the one he'd been at, though he was going to head back there afterwards, he was going to scour every corner of this goddamn lot, in case–

Hiding behind a dirt ramp, something caught Dean's eye. He angled the bike sharply to go over and investigate, and his heart thudded hard as he recognized Sam's second-string bike. It was knocked on its side, one panel dented in, and the ground was torn up everywhere, of course, it was a dirt landing ramp, but there was a swirling mess of dirt around the bike that looked like – maybe a struggle, not a landing.

Sam would never leave his bike like that. That meant – fuck.

Azazel. Had to be. Something bad was going down, and Dean was relieved for a moment, because it meant Sam hadn't left, before cold fear and even colder anger followed right on the echo of that relief. If Sam wasn't going to join the Demons, maybe they took him by force – even if he wasn't going to ride with the Demons, Sam gone meant both one of the best riders on the Hunters was gone, not to mention the magic that Sam and Dean riding together brought to the show; the Demons would win.

He kicked the starter and sped around in a wide circle, spraying up dirt, heading over to Azazel's site, hands clenched white knuckled on his handlebars.

He didn't get any less angry – or scared – on the ride over, but he calmed enough to realize that going roaring into the site screaming _Saaaam_ wasn't going to be a good idea, especially as he didn't know for sure Azazel had Sam; though he was pretty sure. He wanted to believe no-one could be that scarily, insanely obsessed with winning, to actually _attack_ another rider – but he remembered that sharp look in Azazel's eyes, the one that said, clear as day, that he wasn't one to stop at anything like social taboos or right and wrong. Or hurting people.

He slowed his bike a short way from Azazel's site, though it was clear from here it was mostly empty – they'd all probably gone over to the prep area at the stadium, which is where he and Sam should've been right at that moment. Shit. A fat droplet of rain suddenly landed wetly on Dean's head, and he looked up to see the clouds had stopped advancing and had now arrived, making the daylight fade into an ominous darkness that was unsettling this early. The raindrops picked up, spattering around him as he got off his bike and snuck into the site.

He kept to the edge of trailers and trucks. There was a large white van at the far end, with doors bolted shut across the rear, and the scrubby grass just in front of the doors looked torn up, and there was a big clear bootprint left in it. Dean looked around and hurried over, feeling absurd as he looked down at the bootprint, but – it could be Sam's. It was Sasquatch-sized, anyway. Dean glanced around again, heart pounding. "You better be in here and be fucking alright, you little bastard, Sam, or I'll never forgive you," he muttered under his breath, and tugged the bolt across and pulled the left door open.

It was dark inside the van; Dean could make out that it had been used to secure bikes, with chains and metal handles bolted to the walls. There was a dank, thick unpleasant smell, a mix of old congealed motor oil and the strange, almost sulfury gassy smell of old fuel; black streaks of grease were smeared across the walls.

Dean climbed in, crouched down on the floor, and as his eyes adjusted he realized there was movement in the far corner, and as soon as he saw it, he could hear the muffled noise of someone trying to shout through a gag. "Sammy?" he said into the dark, and the struggling increased.

Dean ran to the corner – and it was Sam, his hands trapped behind him and cuffed to a chain on the wall, his feet tied together and duct tape across his mouth. There was a cut on his head sluggishly trickling blood, but he was awake, aware, and clearly pissed to all hell.

"Jesus christ, I'm gonna kill those fuckers," said Dean, falling to his knees as relief rocketed through him, and he ripped the duct tape off in a swift movement.

Sam gasped. "Dean–"

"Are you okay? They're fucking insane – god – don't ever _ever_ fucking do that to me again."

"Me?" Sam started to say, but Dean grabbed him tightly by the shirt and pulled him up to kiss him, hard.

Sam's arms strained back against the cuffs and he grunted, but kissed Dean back hard and intense, until Dean pulled back.

"Hello to you, too," said Sam, grinning, then he sobered. "Dean, it was Azazel and some lackeys – they fucking jumped me in the practice ramps, kidnapped me. Fucking kidnapped me!" There was a huge sudden crack of thunder outside, as loud as a gunshot, and they both jumped. Right after, as though the shot had split open the skies, they heard the sudden roar of rain, the light shower tearing into a torrential downpour thundering around them, pounding on the roof of the van.

"I know," said Dean, "I found your bike. We're not gotta let them get away with it." He ran a hand over Sam's face. "Fuck. I thought – before I realized they had you, for a moment, I thought you'd–"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Run off? Seriously, Dean, why are you so desperate to believe I want _out_?

Dean shrugged. "I think you once called it a blind spot."

"I'm not going anywhere. I already said this is where I wanna be, and it's you I wanna be with–"

"Yeah," said Dean, "about that." The fear of knowing Sam had been taken and this sweet, aching relief of having him here, alive and okay and snarking and kissing him – it had sliced through Dean like a sharpened knife through the soft mess of his angsting about it all, and left only what was important. "Let's just say I'm an idiot and I'm, you know. It's what I want, that's not the question here. And I'm letting you grow up and I'm believing in you. I'm letting myself believe you know what you're talking about when you say you want me." He tried a smile. "I always knew you had good taste, right? So I'm, you know. On board, or whatever."

Sam grinned at him, his stupid dimples creasing his face in infectious happiness. "Aw, ain't you just the biggest romantic. _Whatever_ , back at you." He leaned up to try and kiss Dean, thwarted by the fact he was still cuffed and tied. "Shit, ow!"

Dean winced and went to support Sam's shoulders carefully. He shook his head to clear it. He was still trying to restrain a stupid, useless happy smile and the urge to kiss Sam's face until the storm rained itself out, but there was still something pretty important they still had to do.

"Are you okay? I mean, are you hurt anywhere? Are you okay to ride?"

Sam wriggled. "My head aches and my shoulders are gonna be sore, but nothing's damaged, and righteous anger is gonna get me through the show no problem, as long as you promise to give me a massage tomorrow as an apology for letting me get kidnapped. When's the show?"

"Letting–?" Then Dean looked at his watch and swore. "Like, fifteen minutes."

"Well get me the fuck out of here and let's show them there's no fucking beating us, however hard they try."

Dean eyed the cuffs. "Is there a key?"

Sam gave him a look.

"I don't know how to pick locks, dude! How am I going to get you out of these?"

"Think of something," bit out Sam.

Dean dug in his pocket for his Swiss army knife, used one of the tool attachments to poke around in the keyhole in the cuffs, trying to not choke Sam by shoving his shoulder too hard into Sam's throat as he tried to get closer to see what he was doing.

"You know engines and shit," said Sam, "just think of it as a mechanism, feel around and wait until it feels right–"

There was a satisfying snick, and Sam slumped into Dean as the cuffs loosened.

"I'm freaking awesome," said Dean.

"Congratulate yourself later, man, we gotta _go_."

They untied Sam's feet and Sam stumbled to his feet under Dean's support, wincing as the feeling returned to his numb feet and arms.

At first Dean thought it was the insane screaming wind that had yanked the door open, spraying the inside of the van with a sheet of rain; he and Sam froze in the middle of the van, bent forward under its low roof, when they realized there was a figure there, outlined darkly against the grayness of the storm raging outside.

Azazel climbed into the van. "Stay exactly where you are," he said, voice low and menacing.

Dean laughed. "Fuck you. Get out of my way. And for the record, you ever touch my brother again, I am going to murder you. Cold blood."

"Big words, Dean," said Azazel with a smirk, but Dean was done with his bullshit.

"I'm gonna say it one more time. Get out of my way. We're going to ride out in the show and we're going to annihilate your precious, pathetic Demons." Sam was standing more steadily, so Dean took a step forward towards Azazel, grinning.

"I don't think you are," said Azazel, and there was an insane light in his eyes.

"What is your _problem_?" snapped Sam, sounding frustrated. "I get you want to win the competition, but – you kidnapped me. You're insane. Who does that?"

Azazel stepped in closer, his hands in fists. "The year your father died--"

"You got no right talking about our dad," bit out Dean.

Azazel grinned. "Oh, but I do. See, I was at that show. It was my year, you know? The competition was mine, I was on form, I'd trained so hard, I was at my peak; it was _mine_ , until your reckless, dumb lump of a father got himself killed. They canceled the competition, did you know that? All because one pathetic little traitor from your beloved Hunters couldn't handle his bike."

"You shut up," growled Sam, "right now."

"And so you wonder why I hate you so much. It wasn't my year, after all, and it was all his fault I never got that win, never even got to show what I could do – because I would have won. And two months later my car ran off the road in a storm, and I fucked up my shoulders bad enough I was never getting back on a bike. Dream over, like that. My one chance ruined."

"I wish I could say I was sorry that happened to you," said Dean steadily, "but you've built up enough bad karma since then you deserve it."

"I didn't! I didn't fucking deserve it! I deserved to win, I've always deserved to win, you slimy little punk, and if I couldn't ride, I knew how else to win. The loyal little world of GFMX, ripe for a shake-up and some classic manipulation. I've dedicated _years_ to developing Azazel and finally putting it into motion – but you know all that, of course, Azazel the corporation with more money and power than your dad had in his little finger, and we're going to be unstoppable once we win. Because we will. I have to finally win. And you two – oh, you two. John's boys. Watching you go down in flames as I finally rise in victory – well, it'll be the _sweetest_ little cherry on top."

"This has been a great chat," said Sam pleasantly, "very, you know, movie-villain monologue and everything, points for that – but you're insane, and we have a competition to get to, so if you wouldn't mind--"

"You aren't going anywhere!"

"I think we are," said Dean, stepping forward; Azazel exploded into motion, his fists up, ready, a violence in him borne of desperation and years of obsession.

Sam and Dean both ducked, then Sam kicked his leg out and caught Azazel's knee; he staggered, and Dean laid him out with a punch to the jaw so hard it made his fist ache – but Azazel went down, sprawled unmoving on the floor.

"Huh," said Dean, after a pause. "Guess he's a bastard, not a fighter."

"Shit," breathed Sam, catching his breath and looking at Dean wide eyed. "Is he definitely out?"

Azazel looked like he was down stone cold, but Dean had only hit him with his fist, so they couldn't take a chance and hang around.

Dean grinned. "Come on, Sammy!" he said, and pulled Sam quickly out of the van, the rain coming down hard enough it wetted them through immediately, flattening Sammy's hair in thick streaks pasted to his forehead. Sam considered the van for a moment, before slamming the doors closed against Azazel's unconscious body and slamming the bolt home. He turned to Dean. "Reckon he's learned his lesson?"

"Probably not. That was an intense level of crazy. But this still feels pretty good."

They ran through the rain to where Dean had left his bike, Sam slipping on behind Dean and wrapping his arms around Dean's waist, tightening them with a yelp as Dean kicked the bike into life and sped off. Sam pressed close to Dean, and kissed his neck, a hot touch of lips through the coolness of the rain water coursing down his skin.

\--

 _When Jo badly dislocated her knee crashlanding a trick, the hospital room could barely fit the seven other people that squeezed in, and it took three nurses and a doctor to convince them that it would not help Jo heal any faster if every single one of them stayed there overnight and if anyone stayed, just her mom would probably be fine._

 _When Tamara's sister gave birth three weeks early, it was Victor who was closest when she got the call and who dropped everything to help her drive the thousand miles cross country to the hospital to see her nephew. The congratulations card was filled with signatures from people Tamara's sister didn't even know, everyone from the core riders through to the Hunters' admin team._

 _When Corbett's parents saw him on T.V. with the Hunters and decided to contact him for an apology and reunion, it was Ellen who took Corbett along and sat with him; when they came along to the next show, it was Victor who welcomed them in despite the fact he wanted to punch them out, because Corbett had asked him to be nice._

 _On the anniversary of Mary and John's deaths, everyone, whether they'd known them or not, always chipped in for the flowers._

 _On Father's Day, Bobby had no children but still got three cards; from Sam, Dean and Jo. He kept them all, way back to childish scrawls, in a box in the attic of his South Dakota house and Dean would never tell Bobby he'd found it, but sometimes he went to look at it anyway, and smiled._

 _Winchester's Hunters were a family before they were a team who did biking tricks together; they knew each other, loved each other, and trusted each other._

 _And there was no-one, no two people in the world, who did do more than the lynch pins of the team – Sam knew Dean inside out, backwards, clockwise and anti, in every way, and Dean the same for Sam. They knew each other, and it was their strength._

\--

The sky was angry, swirls of black and gray, and lightning was flashing in sheets across the world in intervals that shrank shorter and shorter as Sam and Dean roared up the road to the stadium. Thunder rumbled above, a viciously angry noise.

"Appropriately apocalyptic weather, huh?" yelled Sam in Dean's ear over the sound of the thunder, wind and bike. Dean grinned, eyes squinted to slits against the driving rain; they screamed though the gate, past surprised officials and into the covered riders prep area.

"Better not be starting without us!" shouted Dean as they rode smack in the middle of where the Hunters were all getting ready.

Bobby turned to look at them with a blank expression of surprise on his face – he had a set of leathers in his hand, and promptly sat down on the seat of a nearby bike. "Jesus fucking christ, boys, you actually want me to die, is that it? I was two seconds from putting this on myself and getting on a bike."

Sam leaped off from behind Dean, grinning in a way that was probably inappropriate for how stressed everyone else looked, but Dean felt it, too. The adrenaline of just making it in time had got him good and hot and eager in the chest and he was ready to get out there.

Bobby dazedly handed the suit over to Dean. "What in the hell happened to you?"

"Azazel. Long story," said Dean, "but one you're gonna want to know – just, after we ride. How long we got?"

"Three minutes," said Jo, winding her hair up into a neat bun and grabbing her helmet. "You have no idea how stressful you guys are, jesus, you're lucky you're good."

"Sorry," said Dean, "really. We're here now, and we're gonna win, right?"

She looked at him almost sulkily, then grinned in one of her mercurial flashes of moods. "If you say so!"

Dean kicked his boots off and stripped out of his sodden clothes down to his underwear which was thankfully still dry. Wet underwear inside the leathers wouldn't have been the ideal way to ride. He turned to check on Sam and lost his words faced with the bare expanse of Sam's back and his tight little ass in his briefs as he bent over to pull his suit on. Sam stood up, sliding the suit up his legs, and turned to catch Dean's eye. He gave him a filthy, mischievous grin. "Ready, brother?"

Dean glared at him and got his own suit on. Boots – gloves – helmet – bike – and it was smeared with mud from the riding he'd done on it today, finding Sam and getting them back here in the torrential rain, but there was no time to clean it up, now. It wasn't the presentation. It was the riding. He flung a leg over his bike, settled into its familiar grooves once more, and searched for that calm _competition_ space in his head. It was jagged at the edges with the lingering effects of fear, anger, shock, adrenaline and stress, but in the middle of it, this steady, familiar presence, was Sam. He glanced over at Sam next to him. They were going to ride together, and ride well. That would be enough. The klaxon blared out, echoing the growl of thunder from outside, and they were off.

It wasn't a perfect show; it wasn't a repeat of Miami, by a long shot. The last minute scramble had thrown everyone off a little – their timing wasn't impeccable, even though it was good; but it wasn't the to-the-beat, to-the-rider synced precision they'd pulled off in Miami.

Everyone made a few mistakes – little ones, of timing, or sloppy movements; and there were a couple of big ones, too, such as the wrong trick at the wrong time, or people not heading to the right part of the arena at the right time.

The thing was, though, that made Dean feel like they'd put on a fantastic show mistakes aside, was the fact that for every mistake one rider made, the rest of the team pulled together to compensate. If one rider started to go a different way to the schedule, two others would respond quickly and go with them and they'd turn it into a feature, a loop around the arena in formation. If a rider put the wrong trick at the wrong time, the rest of them mixed up the order of the tricks they were doing so the original pattern was lost and the mistake camouflaged.

It was a tribute to how well the team knew the routine, and how well they knew _each other_ , and could predict everyone else's responses; the show was choppier, a little more awkward, but what could have been glaring mistakes weren't; and the team pulled together in a way that made Dean almost more proud of everyone than after the perfect showing in the semis.

And it wasn't just keeping the routine looking good – they kept each other safe, too. It was clear Corbett wasn't feeling confident as they approached the four-sided pit for the flips three riders would all do at once in the air; and if Corbett didn't do the flip, or was off at all, it could fuck up the precision needed in the trick that was as important for safety as presentation. Tamara, who was riding up adjacent to Corbett, made a single slashing motion with her arm, and all three riders jumped, but none flipped. It wasn't as impressive, but it was exactly what they needed to do.

The crowd was no less excitable, and everything smoothed out the closer they got to the end, timing tightened up, tricks smoother and jumps higher, and they were all having fun with it again.

Sam and Dean rode down for their opposite flips through the ring of fire, and Dean's heart felt tight and happy, high in his chest. He could feel Sam next to him, his every movement, and knew they were going to pull it off as perfect as they ever did. Which is why he wanted to add a little extra. He hadn't planned it – they'd never even discussed it – but he knew Sam would know. He took the hand nearest Sam off the handlebar and made a quick twirling motion with a gloved finger.

He gave himself more speed than he usually did for the trick, and flew off the ramp easily. He pulled straightway on the handle bars, manipulating his weight on the back to twist himself into the backflip far too early, knew Sam was doing the same. The bike flipped easily through the air, and he used his knowledge of how to do it along with his pure instinct of how the bike felt to complete the rotation at the same time Sam did; they passed each other upright in the ring rather than upside, down – except not quite upright, because already Dean – and Sam as he passed him – was continuing the momentum and shifting his weight, urging his bike into a second flip. The ring thumped into flame, and Dean grinned wildly into the light and heat.

Double backflips had been done in FMX, and single riders had done it in the occasional GFMX show, but there were rarely fully landed, dangerous as hell, and something Winchester's Hunters had never touched. Never ever discussed. Both Sam and Dean had practiced them, individually and together, in secret and as safely as possible, not sure if it was in defiance or homage to their father. They'd never raised it with Bobby, and never explicitly talked with each other about doing in a show; but this felt like the right time.

It was the first time a double backflip would have been performed in tandem and simultaneously the first time it had been performed by anyone in conjunction with a fire leap. It was insane and dangerous and as the bike turned fully upside down for the second time, it was the best feeling Dean had ever had.

Well. He grinned, Sam flashing into his mind. Almost the best feeling.

Landing a double backflip was always tight, using very last split second you had of air time off a ramp, but Dean coaxed it around and his wheels thumped down exactly on time. It was a more angled, jarring landing than he was used to, but he rode it out, and couldn't resist swerving over to get closer to Sam as they rode back to the other end, reaching out to exchange a high five.

He could feel the incredulous looks they were getting from the rest of the team, but it was kind of hilarious, and it must have sparked something in the team because their final jump and trick over the fire pit was higher and more perfectly synchronized than any the team had done together in the show so far.

There was silence as they rode back to the prep area, and Sam and Dean shared an uncertain look as they dismounted, pulled off their helmets, because – they'd never cleared it with Bobby, never even talked about it, and it was his show, his team, and his best friend who'd been killed in a reckless attempt at a double backflip.

Bobby walked right over, put his hands tight on Dean's shoulders and looked, for a moment, everything; from angry to scared and impressed to pleased, before shaking his head and tugging Dean and then Sam into a harsh gripping hug.

He let go and nodded, took his hat off and then put it back on again. "Good show," he said. "Good show, team."

" _Fuck_ ," said Victor, stomping unceremoniously off his bike, "I can't believe I messed up the–"

"Stop it," said Sam, shaking his head. "We all made a few mistakes there, but we also should be proud of that show."

Jo shook her hair down. "It was a bit of a mess," she said carefully, "but – I kinda think we did well. You know? We worked – well, we worked like a team. Which is sort of the whole point."

Dean grinned. "Think the Demons know each other well enough to pull together how we did? Bet your ass they don't."

"Yeah, maybe, but bet your ass they aren't going to fuck up a simple seat-grab like I did, either," said Tamara glumly.

"We all fucked up a bit," said Dean. "But Sam's right. I've never been more proud of the team." He glanced over at Bobby. "And we gotta tell you what happened – Azazel kidnapped Sam."

They told the whole story; Corbett insisted they calls the cops, Jo said at least they should tell the competition organizers and get the Demons disqualified, Victor wanted to march right over to their prep area right now and beat them all to a pulp; but Bobby shook his head.

"We're not gonna put anything in motion right now. Maybe not at all, I don't know, we need to talk it over with Ellen. It's gonna be our word against theirs, and Sam and Dean left the guy unconscious, locked up. Not that any of us wouldn't have done the same thing, but it gives them ammunition, and you know along with everything else they've got one hell of a powerful legal team behind them – and at this stage, there's nothing we can do, anyway, they're about to ride–"

The klaxon went off.

Bobby looked at his team. "So right now, all we can do is see if we can beat them."

"Fuck this," said Jo, "this is the one time where watching their show is going to be _less_ excruciating than sitting here listening and wondering." She spun on her heel and headed up to their allocated viewing bay.

Sam bit his lip. "I think she's right."

They stepped out into the seats allocated for them, and the media took notice straightaway, but the Hunters were too busy watching the Demons ride.

It was impressive; incredibly so. Their sleek dark suits with their silver and yellow looked incredible against their brand new model bikes with the same color scheme in the bright floodlights in the stadium. Their show was energetic and flashy and the riders were skilled; they packed in trick after trick.

Sam was sitting next to Dean, his knee shoved firm against Dean's in what looked like a casual sprawl but Dean was pretty sure was purposeful contact. "They're good," he said, low, eyes fixed on the rider spinning his 360 horizontal turn flawlessly.

Dean's eyes flickered over the stadium. "Yeah," he said, "but can you see how there's not much of a structure to the show? It's just a whole lot of tricks, over and over. High skill level, but not that many tricks in tandem, and none with more than two riders at once, so far."

"They're good," said Sam, slowly, nodding, "but they don't _know_ each other. They don't even know their bikes as well as we do – they're shiny new bikes, sure, but they don't belong to the riders like ours do. They're just using them as equipment, not a part of the show. It's all regimented, by the book. No flexibility."

"Will the judges see it like we do, though?" said Dean.

Sam bit his lip. "They know exactly how a team should work. They know what a good team looks like. We can only hope they aren't overly impressed and blinded by the presentation and the sheer content being racked up."

There was no clear hierarchy in the team, either; every member of a GFMX team was important but there needed to be a structure within the team, different levels supporting each other. It was clear, with the Demons, each rider was trying to be the top rider, the one who jumped highest and did the most complex tricks, and as the show reached its climax – which just seemed to be jumps and tricks packed in with an ever increasing dizzy frequency – the tricks got more and more complex, and mistakes slipped in; shaky landings, missed footwork, cut-short movements.

The team utilized the long group ramp for the first time on their exit jump – doing their first full team tandem trick. They flipped into a backflip and did a complicated midair upside down maneuver, coming almost fully off the bike and hooking their feet under the handlebars and arching their backs almost to touch the back of the seat with their fingertips, then kicking out and flipping their bodies back into place, landing back on their seats for a smooth landing. They'd obviously practiced that well – it was one of the highest level tricks in the show, but there weren't any mistakes; each rider was flawless. The klaxon sounded out.

"Fuck," said Sam, "that was good."

"But it wasn't in tandem!" said Dean, frustrated. Each rider was amazing, it was rare to get everyone in a team doing something of that level, but they weren't all in time with each other, or even the same height and style, not even close.

Sam nodded. "I know. I know. But they've killed it on content and style. Ours was _good_ , we had skill and all the content, but theirs was _really_ good. Even with our double flips. But it's still too close to call, I reckon."

Dean rubbed his hand over his mouth. "They weren't a team. They were practically competing against each other in the show, trying to be bigger and brighter than each other. Let alone competing against us. They didn't pull together."

It wasn't over until it was over, though. Until that big blank screen in the middle of the arena proclaimed it one way or another, Apocalypse could be theirs. Or Azazel's.

The ten minutes the judges needed to collate and present their scores were the longest in Dean's life, stretching into an eternity of sitting, waiting, wondering numbly if it had all been worth it. If Sam hadn't been sitting next to him, a presence at once vibrating with nerves as Dean was and also bizarrely comforting, Dean wouldn't have survived those freaking endless minutes.

The Demons appeared in their allocated space on the other side of the arena, helmets off; Azazel wasn't with them, maybe he was still in the van, who knew; the Demons clearly hadn't needed him to ride out. All wanting their own success too badly.

The announcer was winding up the crowd, and when the words APOCALYPSE: FINAL! RESULTS! scrolled across the board, the stadium went insane, a wave of sound rolling out as everyone screamed and cheered. Sam fumbled for Dean's hand and Dean gripped on tight, couldn't help it, but it was okay because everyone else on the team was holding hands tightly – Dean to Sam to Jo to Tamara to Corbett to Victor to Bobby.

Their scores appeared in each category, appearing simultaneously as each category scrolled across the board one by one.

 _Technical content_ – Sam was right. The Demons killed it; the Hunters' score was impressive but the Demons had ticked every box and smashed their score. Sam gripped so hard Dean felt like his bones should be creaking, but he just gripped back harder.

 _Skill level_ appeared – there was a stadium-wide gasp, because it was _close_ , closer than Dean had thought; he supposed the Demons' mistakes as the show went on had been telling, especially as the Hunters had improved skill as the show went on and as the tricks got harder; but the Demons still edged ahead, widening their lead.

He could hear Jo whispering figures frantically under her breath, then the score for _Overall presentation_ came up; Azazel's Demons, with their slick, flashy suits, bikes, modern music and generous use of color coordinated pyrotechnics had clearly won the judges over, because their score was significantly higher than the Hunters.

The crowd was restless – there were pockets of applause, cheering, and some groaning coming from behind the Hunters, as if it were decided, as if the Demons had won already, but–

"Wait for it, wait, wait," muttered Sam, because the last score was _Teamwork_.

The score flickered up, and there was silence for a taut, breathless second, because Winchester's Hunters' teamwork score was over twice as high as the Demons.

There was a confused, stressful moment as everyone tried to figure out what that meant, then everyone's mental math skills seemed to click into place half a second before the final scores themselves flashed up, because the Hunters leaped to their feet in one breathless disbelieving movement, and the applause crashed over them like rain.

They'd won.

\--

Epilogue

They're doing an early spring exhibition show just outside of Lawrence, Kansas, which has Bobby misty-eyed at points and determined with a manic sort of intensity to put on the best show ever to honor the memory of where the team came from; Mary and John's home town.

Dean's feeling placid about the whole thing, though, really – or maybe that's because he's got his head tipped back in Sam's lap, with his brother's hands big and warm, slowly moving over the muscles of his shoulders; nominally because Dean wrenched – or, you know, very lightly pulled – a muscle in the show last week but mostly because he likes convincing Sam to give him massages. They're sprawled on a scrubby patch of grass behind the garage they're keeping their bikes at before they'll take them over to the stadium for their second show that evening. For now, there's nothing pressing to do, and the light spring sun is warm on his face. "I feel like, I dunno, I should feel weird."

Sam doesn't answer for a minute. "'Bout what?" he says, voice sounding as relaxed and sun soaked as Dean feels.

"Being in Lawrence. It's making me think of Dad, and all that, but I don't feel fucked up about it. Like, whenever I used to think about Dad, I've felt – sad, and pissed, and confused, and all sorts. Now I just feel – okay. I kinda like being here, even. It feels circular. This is where it started, and now we're here putting on sold-out shows."

Sam digs his fingers in more firmly, and Dean makes a little noise of pleasure.

"Maybe you're finally well-adjusted about it."

Dean snorts. "Well adjusted. The guy who's fucking his brother."

The grin is obvious in Sam's voice when he says, "Point. Maybe I'm just awesome enough a distraction you can't be stressed about anything else." He rubs his fingers right up the nape of Dean's neck, firm pressure making Dean shiver pleasantly.

"You might be on to something," he murmurs.

"Did you see the lot we passed this morning?"

Dean frowns. With the sun and Sam's magic hands he isn't supposed to be using his brain. "Uh, no?"

"There was this, like, old garage, two story house attached, pretty big lot, decent square footage it said on the sign. For sale. On the way into Lawrence. I saw it out of the coach window."

Dean squints his eyes open, but he can't see Sam's face well, bent over him, the sky bright behind him and his face obscured in silhouette. "And?"

Sam shrugs; Dean can see the movement and feel it where he's sprawled against Sam. "Well, I dunno. Just thinking. I mean, not now, probably not there, it's a big change to think about, maybe not even for years yet, we can stay with Bobby or carry on being on-site with the team for now. But I just. I've been thinking."

"About what?" Dean moves his hand up to poke at Sam's knee in emphasis.

There's a few seconds of silence. "Just – you and me. Be nice to get our own garage. Live by it. Get some – hire some bike mechanics maybe, start a bike collection, stunt and road bikes, parts, all that. Start up a little business, maybe even set up a little coaching for younger FMX riders. You could give lessons. You're a good teacher. We'd – still be part of the team, of course, I mean just on the side or for the off season, get someone to manage it while we're riding in the season, and we can still take over leading the team when it's time for Bobby to hang up his cap, I know that's your future, I want it too. But we – we – need our own base. We can use the space for – you know, get some ramps set up, for fun and for practice and for maybe doing a bit of designing for the show once we're–"

Dean raises a hand to touch it to Sam's lips, bumps against his nose then his open mouth. "You've thought a lot about this."

He can feel Sam's mouth twist into a tentative smile he can't see but can picture. "I guess. I – it would be nice to have our own privacy, more than anything." Sam's smile turns a little darker, sexier under Dean's fingers and he nips his teeth at Dean's skin lightly.

So that's what Sam was thinking when he said all that stuff about a real future; their own house, their own garage, something serious and lasting and them. It doesn't sound nearly as scary as Dean used to think it might.

Dean licks his lips. "I guess it's a good thing we haven't blown our Apocalypse prize money on anything yet, huh?"

He feels Sam startle, slightly, his thighs tensing under Dean's head. "Huh?"

"Well." Dean grins up at his brother. "We're gonna need a down payment on the lot, right?"

"You – seriously? I – yeah. I guess we are." Sam leans right over him, lips touching his upside down, warm even on Dean's sun heated skin.

They can hear Bobby's footsteps as he approaches the garage; Sam pulls back, but stays close enough that Dean can see the details of his face now despite the bright world above him. He smirks up at Sam, playing their silent game that they like to play now in moments like this, and Dean leaves it–leaves it–and rolls out of Sam's lap and sits up just in time for Bobby to come around the back of the garage.

"What are you boys doing lollygagging back here?"

Dean leans back on his elbows. "Catching some rays, old man."

"I'll old man you, we got some last minute run throughs for the show tonight. No slacking off, this is the same show we're taking to the heats in a couple of months, we gotta know it inside out if we're gonna have any sort of shot at Apocalypse this year, come on–"

Bobby's already turning to head back to the bikes, chuntering as he goes and moves out of sight.

"Be right there!" shouts Sam, then whispers, "in a minute." He crawls over the grass towards Dean and shoves him down, looms over him for a moment, then kisses him.

The sudden sensation in Dean's chest that he gets way too often when Sam touches him is a little like the weightless feeling he loves at the peak of a backflip; time stops, and all there is is his body, and his brother. The world will tug at him in a moment, drag them back; but for now he's caught suspended in Sam, and it's his favorite place to be.   



End file.
